


Dragons In The North

by DaenerysLemonTree



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AKA He Doesn't Leave Brienne Crying, BAMF Daenerys Targaryen, Boatbaby (Game of Thrones), Braime Smut Chapter 19, But For Now She’s The Victim of My Anger, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, F/M, Fuck Sansa, Incest, Jaime Lannister Redemption, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jonerys Smut Throughout, Maybe She Gets A Redemption IDK, R Plus L Equals J, Season 8 Rewrite, Shes Just.... Ugh, Smut, but not really, fuck D&D, season 8? what season 8?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:13:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 165,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28479717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaenerysLemonTree/pseuds/DaenerysLemonTree
Summary: The beauty of Winterfell was subtle but exquisite. The great stone keep was ancient, far more ancient then any castle her family built on these shores, and it’s people were proud and stubbornly so. Daenerys did not wish to see either succumb to the Long Night. But she was their queen, and they could either bow to the Dragon and live, or break against the Night Kings forces because they wished to be ruled by Wolves.Daenerys knew what option she preferred. Now it was up to Sansa and the rest of the Northmen to make their choice...
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Grey Worm/Missandei, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 1307
Kudos: 618





	1. Chapter 1

The cold beyond the way was cruel and biting. Sharp and terrifying. Every breath was a struggle, every moment painful. In a way the frigid temperatures was so intense it almost burned the Dragon.

At the Wall when she rushed out to meet Jon when he came riding back she slipped, and landed in a pile of ice and snow. Set Jorah got her up quickly but a strange mark was left on her uncovered skin where her dress and coat ripped and her skin had been exposed if only for a few minutes. It was red and raw and brutally painful to the touch. 

The Northmen couldn’t figure out why Daenerys had laughed as hard as she did when they told her she was suffering from one of the worst ice burns they had ever seen.

The cold at Winterfell though was a different sort then it’s brother behind the wall. It was less intense, less unforgiving, less cruel and far more beautiful. The sun barely came out from hiding and they were only given a few hours of light a day but when it was there it reflected off the untouched white and made the ice shine a brilliant blue.

The beauty of Winterfell itself was subtle but exquisite. The great stone keep was ancient, far more ancient then any castle her family built on Westero’ shores, and even far more ancient then dragons themselves. Winterfell had already been standing for 2,000 years when ancient Valyrian’s discovered dragon eggs some 6,000 years ago. 

When Jon Snow told her the North was beautiful, he had not been exaggerating. Nor had he been exaggerating when he told her it’s people were proud, and stubbornly so. They had lost too many of their high lords to dragons and lions alike in recent years, and would not be eager for another southern ruler, especially not when they placed their trust in him to be their king. 

Daenerys knew that. What was more was she understood their reluctance as well. But just as she asked the freedmen to get along with the masters despite the horrors done to them in Meereen, the North would need to accept her rule despite their history.

The eyes watching her as she approached Winterfell were cold and unfriendly. She did not arrive to cheers and applause as she had been in Meereen, but with mistrust and grumbled insults too low for her to hear. Her unsullied and Dothraki received no more warm a welcome then she did, and Daenerys watched as the women clutched their children tighter to their breasts when the horse lords passed, fearful of the men who their nursemaids told them stories about in their bed chambers.

Drogon screeched and roared overhead, and the Northmen all ducked and screamed, awaiting for a fiery death that did not come. She couldn’t help the smidge of smile as she passed the frightened Northmen, her head held high. 

There were no more muttered insults or ugly looks for her or her men.

When she reached the courtyard Jon dismounted first and helped her from her horse. All the eyes here were just as unfriendly and unwilling to trust as the ones who had lined the road. Jon reached down and grabbed hold of Daenerys hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She looked at the black haired boy and she felt some of her unease melt away at the sight of a soft smile meant for her and her alone. 

Jon hurried over to a young boy in a strange looking chair, and kneeled to wrap him in a tight hug. Daenerys saw him quickly wipe away his tears, and she remembered he had not seen his brother in near eight years, and the Starks had lost so much in that time.

“Look at you,” said Jon when he pulled back, speaking only when he was sure his voice wouldn't tremble with the tears he fought to hide. “You’re a man now.” 

Bran gave him an odd little smile. “Almost.”

Jon kissed the top of his head before he turned to the tall woman standing beside the boy, a stunning red head Daenerys simmised to be his sister. If Jon was the Norths solemn quiet, then Sansa was it’s sharp beauty, with an unflinching porcelain face. They wrapped their arms around each other but the wolf did not take her eyes off of Daenerys, not until Jon asked where Arya was.

“Lurking somewhere I imagine,” she said with a slight smile. An inside joke, judging by how Jon chuckled. But the amusement was short-lived when Sansa turned her attention back to Daenerys, and her face was as hard and cold as the stones of the grand keep behind her. Jon turned toward Daenerys and held out his hand beckoning her forward. 

Only she walked towards them, having told her unsullied and Dothraki and even Jorah to stay back prior to this meeting. She had to show the Northmen she was not afraid of them, nor did they have anything to fear from her.

“Sansa, this is Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen,” Jon introduced her, doing his best to try to sound neutral and friendly. “Your Grace, this is my sister Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark. The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed,” Daenerys said with a warm smile. “As are you.”

But Sansa did not return the smile. Her icy blue eyes sized her up, her expression unflinching. “Winterfell is yours, Your Grace,” she finally said after she returned her gaze to her face.

Daenerys’ smile fell. The greeting was common enough. An expected courtesy. But her tone would have sent a shiver down Daenerys’ spine had it not been forged of steel thanks to far more intimidating men. 

Winterfell was not hers. Not by a long shot.

Jon closed his eyes for a moment, dejected that already politics was getting in the way of what he wanted to accomplish. Bran must have sensed the growing strife.

“We don’t have time for this,” he said, saying exactly what Jon wanted to. “The Nightking has your dragon. The dead march south .”

_Viserion. No._

Her lip trembled at the thought of her child, her cream and gold colored boy, the smallest of them all, undead and under the command of an evil entity.

The rest of the Northmen did not mourn her child, but they grew ill at ease at Bran’s proclamation. Even Sansa’s mask cracked with fear at the knowledge that they now needed to contend with a dragon who would not be on their side. 

Jorah saw the distress in his Khaleesi’s face and he made his way to her, standing even faithful by her side. He looked down at a small girl who, Daenerys noticed, had a familiarity about her, and a bear sigil on her cloak. One she had seen a thousand times before.

“Cousin Lyanna,” he said, nodding in her direction.

“You were banished,” Lyanna replied in a no nonsense tone, in the same accent as the tall man standing before her.

His face went red with shame. “I was. However I was pardoned for my crimes and allowed back to my home.”

“By a southern king.” Lyanna turned and gave a distrustful look to Daenerys. “And now you’ve returned with another.”

“Let us get inside.” This time it was Jon who spoke. He sounded so tired. So weary. “We have much to discuss, and family feuds and politics should be the least of it.”

There were all various annoyed grumblings, but they did as their Lord said and made their way into the Great Hall. Sansa eyed Daenerys one last time before she turned on the heel of her boot and made her way into the castle, the tall blonde who had been there at the Dragonpit following in her step. Daenerys told her Dothraki to see their horses properly stabled, and then told both the Unsullied and the Horse Lords to start finding empty rooms, doubling or tripling up if necessary. Greyworm and Missandei hurried into the keep once Daenerys gave the order to get in out of the cold and she and Jon were finally left alone.

She draped her arms around his neck and he sighed as he wrapped her in his embrace. “Welcome to Winterfell,” he muttered. 

Daenerys chuckled, and the sound made the corners of his lips tug upwards. “Your family’s quite friendly.”

It was Jon’s turn to laugh then. He smiled, and pushed a loose curl from her face and pushed it behind her ear before he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. They were dry and chapped from the cold, and his beard was wiry and scratched at her skin.

No kiss had ever felt as sweet.

He rubbed her arms, trying to generate some type of heat. “Let’s get you inside where it’s warm.”

Jon and Daenerys walked inside, and Daenerys gazed up at the tall windows and heavy stone. Tapestries of men in stiff snowy leathers and women in beautiful furs, all with similar colorings and features stared at her from the walls. The Great Hall was packed from stem to stern with mainly Northmen but she saw Missandei and Greyworm along with Jorah, Tyrion and Varys. She was not completely alone. She was grateful she had not been thrown to the wolves with nothing to save her except her wits at least. 

Sansa sat at the high table but to her credit she left the middle seat open for Jon and another chair had been brought out from the main floor and placed beside his.

Daenerys sat first but no one followed as was custom, save her own men. The tall blonde, Brienne, Daenerys believed her name was, huddled uncertainly with her knees bent but not fully as she glanced nervously from the Stark girl to the Queen, but loyalty won out in the end and she remained standing as well.

A smugness rang in Sansa’s eyes as the Northmen all waited to sit until Jon slumped down in his seat, fatigued and with growing annoyance at how even the most basic of courtesies were turning into a pissing match.

“As soon as we heard about the Wall, I called all our banners to retreat to Winterfell,” Sansa began the meeting, more for Jon and Daenerys’ benefit then the Northern lords. “Lord Umber, when can we expect your people to arrive?”

A young boy stood up from the side of the room and walked forward. His voice trembled as he spoke to three of the most high ranking people in Westeros. “We need more horses and wagons, if it please, my lady.” He stopped and turned to look at Jon. “And my lord.” And again to Daenerys. “And my queen. Sorry.”

Daenerys smiled at the child, silently assuring him that his mistake at not addressing her first as was proper was already forgiven and forgotten. At least there was some in the North who were accepting of her rule.

“You'll have as many as we can spare,” said Sansa. “Hurry back to Last Hearth and bring your people here.”

The little Lord Umber bowed to all three and hurried back to his seat as quickly as he could.

Jon addressed what appeared to be a Maester. “We need to send ravens to the Night's Watch as well. There's no sense in manning the castles anymore. We make our stand here.”

The aged Maester bowed. “At once, Your Grace.

" _Your Grace._ "

All eyes were on the young girl who had spoken up. She stood from her chair, eyeing Jon with a sharpness as she walked forward. 

“But you’re not. Are you? You left Winterfell a king and came back a- I’m not sure what you are now.” 

The Northmen all muttered in agreement. It was most unlike any sort of meeting she had been too before. Usually if one had an audience with a monarch one only one person spoke at a time. Not here apparently. In the North it seemed everyone had a say and all at once, from the highest Lord to the most lowborn peasant, all could make their voices heard. A rather progressive way to lead a council, and one Daenerys would think about adapting. She would tell Lady Sansa afterwards. Perhaps that might gentle her some, knowing Daenerys was willing to learn from and adapt some of the practices from their culture and histories, just as she had done to the other places she ruled. 

“A lord?” Lyanna continued. “Nothing at all?

Jon shook his head. “It's not important.”

“Not important?” She spat. “We named you King in the North!”

The rabble started cheering, and Sansa held her head higher. Jon glanced at his sister but when she looked towards him her eyes were screaming what her mouth would not. 

_I told you so._

Jon stood from his seat and urged silence with a raised hand. “You did, my lady. It was the honor of my life. I’ll always be grateful for your faith. But when I left Winterfell, I told you we need allies or we will die. I have brought those allies home to fight alongside us. I had a choice, keep my crown or protect the North. I chose the North.” 

“You choose to lose the North!” one yelled from the crowd. “To a Targaryen whore! With an army of foreign savages who mean to rule over me and mine! I will not have it, boy, do you understand me! I will not have it!”

Jon slammed his fist down on the wooden table, the sound echoing loudly in the Great Hall and silencing the group quickly. A fire burned hot and bright in his grey eyes. “You will have it if I say you will have it! Nor will you not use that word in this Hall!” he barked. “It was not acceptable to insult a woman much less a queen in my fathers presence when he ran council, nor will it be in mine! Queen Daenerys and her men came to **_help_** **_us_**! She set aside her war with the Lannisters to bring her armies North! They’re offering to die for us and our homeland! It is not just my war or the Northern war, no! And she knows that! But she could have fought Cersei first, and instead she choose us! She choose you, your sons, your homes first! You **_will_** respect her sacrifice!”

“And what of our sacrifices?!” an old women with grey stringy hair and a thick Northern accent yelled out. “I lost my husband and two sons fighting Aerys, three grandsons fighting to get the North away from the Lannisters, and another getting it back from the Boltons! Then, when we finally have independence, you go and give it away!”

Even more shouts and cries of agreement. Names they had lost in their wars, and curses towards Jon and Daenerys all mixed together in their anger. Tyrion stood and raised his hands, but he also had to shout to gain quiet and command of the room. 

“If anyone survives the war to come, we'll have Jon Snow to thank,” he said looking around the room. “He risked his life to show us the threat is real. Thanks to his courage, we have brought with us the greatest army the world has ever seen. We have brought two full-grown dragons. And soon… the Lannister army will ride north to join our cause.”

The loudest objection was roared from the crowd then. Daenerys flinched as a glass mug was thrown, missing Tyrion by inches. She saw a fleeting look of fear in Sansa’s expression.

“I know our people haven't been friends in the past!” Tyrion yelled above the raised voices. “But we must fight together now or die.”

Sansa did not have to raise her voice. When she spoke the rabble quieted down immediately. “May I ask, how are we meant to feed the greatest army the world has ever seen?” Her tone sent Daenerys over the edge. She was tired of smirks, of anger, of insults… “While I ensured **_our_ ** stores would last through winter, I didn't account for Dothraki, Unsullied and two full-grown dragons.” She smirked as she looked out at the crowd. “What do dragons eat, anyway?”

Had it been a legitimate question, and had Sansa wanted a serious answer and hadn’t just asked with the intent to further them the North against her, Daenerys would have given a legitimate answer. She would have told her that the wild animals in the woods would suffice for their meals and that they had brought pens full of goats as well. She would have assured the shepherds and farmers amongst them that while she understood their reluctance to have Dragons flying around, their flocks had nothing to fear from them, nor did those who were worried about depleting their stores to feed them. But Sansa had asked with an attitude, intending to heckle Daenerys.

So; Daenerys gave the attitude right back, answering with a cool, “whatever they want.”

Sansa’s hand curled around the arm of her and pursed her lips. More raised shouting, this time at Daenerys directly but she could not find it in her to care. 

Jon rubbed his temples, calling for quiet again. He had to take a deep breath before he spoke. “The Queen’s men brought their own food,” he said to the crown and his sister. “And from what I know of dragons they hunt in the woods for prey, same the wolves in the Godswood. We will not be responsible for feeding them. But let me remind you…” While he looked out at the crowd everyone knew his words were meant for the redhead at the high table. “These men are fighting for our home. This is not their war. Their homes are not at stake, their children will not be threatened. Daenerys offered to let them stay at Dragonstone until the Long Night was over, but they chose to follow her to help us. If they run out of food, which I doubt they will, and if they are hungry we will feed them. The same as Ned Stark would have done.” 

He turned and looked directly at Sansa then, lowering her voice so only she could hear. “For all the issues your mother had with me not once did I ever go hungry under her roof. Not once. And she had much more cause to hate me then you have to hate them.” Bran turned toward to look at them. “If her men are hungry, we will feed them. Not because they helped us, not because you figured out a way to expand the grain stores, but it will be because it is the right thing for the Lady of Winterfell to do.” 

Sansa blushed a scarlet and bowed her head, embarrassed at her own behavior. Jon sat back down, glancing at Daenerys and motioning to the hall. 

The floor was hers.

She took a deep breath and stood from her spot, coming out from behind the table to do so. “I know you mistrust outsiders,” Daenerys said, loud and making sure her voice reached the back of the hall. “I understand your reluctance to trust me. But all I am here to do is help. I saw the threat of the dead, as strong as the Northern soldiers are you cannot face it alone. We need to work together. We need to trust each other, as hard as it will be to get over your grudges, we need to fight as one. The Night King won’t care if his army is made up of Northmen or Unsullied, Dothraki or Wildling, we are all the same to him. So let us act like it.”

Angry mutters and grumblings followed her speech. She gave up. It had been a long trip from White Harbour and she was tired. She shook her head and went back to her seat, and a moment later Jon dismissed the hall. Sansa didn’t even wait until he was finished to storm out, Brienne following close behind. 

Once the hall cleared out Daenerys turned to Jon who sat exhausted, rubbing his temple. “I thought this would be easier,” he sighed. “The wildlings have fought them, the North believes the old stories that turned out to be true. Titles and human wars, prejudices, grudges; none of that should matter. If we can’t get along before the Night King comes they’ll be no more North to fight over.”

Daenerys wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. He reached up and cupped her hand with his own. “Things will work out.” She was amazed at how well she was able to lie. “They will. And we will all survive and we will go back to fighting human wars and politics. You know; easy things to sort out.”

It brought a chuckle to his lips and he turned to look at her. “You make the end of the world a bit less gloomy, you know that?”

She smiled and kissed him. “I love you,” Daenerys breathed. It was the first time she had said it, and he smiled against her lips.

“I love you too,” he told her, capturing them in another kiss.

It was strange, Daenerys thought as they held each other. Simply standing near Sansa and Bran there had been a sharp chill that came off them. Even if they had been friendly she guessed the ancient cold of the Starks and the North would accompany them whenever they went. 

But not with Jon. No, all she felt was a warmth that spread throughout her chest, mixed with a strange comforting cold. Like she had taken a drink of her favorite mulled wine in the middle of winter, or if a beautiful blizzard was raging outside and she was safe and cozy in her chambers with a large burning fireplace. 

It was as if Jon was ice and fire both….


	2. Chapter 2

The lord's chambers in Winterfell were not covered in gold and jewels or finery as other Great Lords chambers might be, but it was very large and cozy and inviting all the same. Hot water ran through the very stone itself and a fireplace that took up nearly half the wall was blazing bright red and orange with a healthy supply of kindling beside it. The four poster feather bed was as soft as anything Daenerys had ever laid on, and the furs overtop of it were heavy, thick and warm. 

While Sansa had her things moved out before they arrived the servants still had to hurry to bring in all of Daenerys’ possessions and set up the chambers to her liking. In order to get out of their way Daenerys asked Jon to show her around the castle and grounds. He agreed with a beaming smile, eager to show off his home to the queen.

Every hallway had a history it seemed, and every room they passed had a story to go alongside it and Daenerys listened with intent as Jon recited them with enthusiasm. As serious as he appeared to be he was a rather good storyteller. Four younger siblings will do that to a man, she wagered. 

She remembered how she used to sit at Viserys feet when she was a child and he would tell her stories about ancient Valerians, brave Targaryen dragonriders and honorable Westerosi knights. He would tell her stories about their mother, their kingdom from the grand Wall in the North to the shimmering seas of Dorne and Daenerys would stare up at him in awe with big bright violet eyes the whole time. 

As they grew older Viserys changed, as did the stories he told. 

Instead of fair maidens and handsome knights his stories were about the revenge he would take on the usurper and his dogs in great detail. They were fantasies detailing how they would torture the Kingslayer slowly, intimately, bringing him as much misery as he brought them.

Daenerys listened to those as well, though not nearly with as much reverence. One night when he was telling her how they might go back to Westeros and torture the usurper’s son, a small boy two years of age with golden hair and bright green eyes, she interrupted and asked for a tale starring Aemon the Dragonknight instead (Aemon was always her favorite to hear about.) Viserys slapped her, and screamed that she was getting too old for those types of stories and to just shut up and listen.

Daenerys was nine, and that was the last time she ever asked for a story from anyone.

They made their way out to the grounds and Daenerys inhaled deeply. She never realized cold had a smell before. It was fresh and clean and sharp, and pleasantly burned the inside of her nose just slightly.

The yard was crowded with young boys learning to spar, men digging trenches, servants rolling barrel after barrel after barrel of dragon glass to the forges so the blacksmiths could mold them into weapons. It was all very busy and loud, yet a few took the time to shoot the queen a hateful glare and mutter to their companions. 

One older northmen with a white beard that he could tuck into his belt struggled to roll his barrel past them and she willed a friendly smile to her face. “Let us help you with that, Ser.”

“I ain’t no Ser,” he grumbled, but nevertheless he allowed her and Jon to roll the barrel to the forges. Inside was full of every man who could smelt and hammer iron. Steel was not being made, but rather weapons made of obsidian. 

“Where do you want this?” she asked a large burly man with his back turned to them, allowing herself a moments rest as she leaned on the heavy barrel. Strong bulky muscles flexed under pale skin, and his black hair was cut brutally short and soaked with sweat.

“You see that giant pile of barrels up resting against the wall?” he answered without turning to them as he hammered away, his voice showing he didn’t have time for questions. “There might be a good place to set it down if one was so inclined.”

“Where in the seven hells did you learn a word like ‘inclined’?” Jon asked, a spark of amusement in his eyes and tone.

The blacksmith looked then. When he saw Daenerys and realized who exactly he been short with his big blue eyes widened in shock. “M’Grace- I mean Your Lady, I’m sorry!” he stammered out. “I- I didn’t-! I never would’ve-!” 

“It’s quite alright,” she assured him with a friendly smile. His accent told her he wasn’t Northern but a southern lowborn.

He set his hammer down and wiped his hand on a rag he carried in his pocket. “The names Gendry, M’lady,” he offered as he stuck out the now dry hand. A beat and then. “I’m Robert Baratheon's bastard son.”

Daenerys stepped back, as if he were a snake apt to bite her. She had never seen the usurper in person but she knew what he looked like. Hair black as pitch and storm blue eyes, and in his youth none had been able to stand against his strength. 

Jons hands came up and rested on her shoulders. “He’s just a blacksmith,” he whispered in her ear soft and sweet. “That’s all he’ll ever be, that’s all he **_wants_ ** to be. Gendry came with us beyond the Wall, he’s the reason the raven ever reached you. He just doesn’t want to lie about who he is.”

But she didn’t care about that. This was the son of the man who ruined her life, who destroyed their dynasty, who murdered her brother, who sent a man to kill Daenerys and Rhaego with the promise of a lordship. If Varys hadn’t been on their side and the assassin had actually been formidable…

But this boy, Gendry, who had just fallen over himself to apologize for not addressing her properly, a lowborn blacksmith who had saved Jon’s life, who ran for miles in the cold and snow to reach the wall so they might send a raven to Daenerys asking for help… He was not the man who caved in Rhaegar Targaryens ribs, he was not the man who upon seeing the bloodied bodies of her infant niece and toddler nephew had decried them as ‘dragon spawn’, he did not try to kill her son. Gendry was not his father. 

Just as Daenerys was not hers.

So, with a deep breath, she reached out and took hold of his hand and gifted him a curt nod. “It is an honor to meet you, Gendry.”

He smiled back. “Likewise, Your Grace.” Gendry noticed the barrel laying at her feet and he rushed over. “Lemme get that for you.”

With surprising strength he lifted up the barrel and set it on his shoulders like he might have been hauling around a sack of flower instead. He looked towards an equally impressed Jon and smiled at what she understood to be a long lost friends. “When did you get back?”

“Just this morning. You missed the council.”

He snorted as he walked over to the large grouping and he set it down with the others. “Even if I understood half of what was going on and wanted to be there I couldn’t. Forgemaster has us working sun up to sun down.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Even with every smith in the North working through the night I don’t know if we’ll get done in time.”

Jon frowned at the news. “Would it be worth the time lost to have someone teach the men how to work dragon glass so they could come in and help?”

Gendry shook his head. “It would take about three weeks to get a crash course in basic metal working much less working with this stuff. We just need to keep swinging our hammers.”

Daenerys looked at the barrels, running her fingers over the edges of one. They reminded her of the ones she used to catapult the collars with during the rebellions. These were heavy. Obnoxiously so, and even if the obsidian inside was un-sharpened, if it were to crash and explode in an army of Wright’s…

“Get as many weapons made as you can, but don’t worry about finishing all of them, and don’t destroy whatever you can’t forge.” Daenerys looked from one man to the other. “Winterfell has trebuchets right?”

A slow smile spread on the blacksmiths face. “Oh I like this one…”

Jon grinned and wrapped his arms around the queen. “So do I.”

Afterwards Daenerys met the forgemaster, a rather crotchety old man called Mikken with arms of solid steel, and told him the plan. He promised to set fifty or so of the heaviest casts aside before praising Jon for the idea to use the unused barrels as catapult fodder but Jon was quick to tell him that it had been Daenerys who came up with the idea. Mikken lauded her and even called her ‘Your Grace’ before telling them to get the hell out of his shop and let the smiths work. 

Two Northmen down, about twenty thousand to go.

When they were outside again Jon wrapped an arm around her waist. “Would you like to see the Godswood?”

Daenerys nodded and let him steer her into the sacred woods. Soon all the sounds of the keep and the grounds faded to nothing but whistling winds. The forest floor was covered in a thick soft blanket of snow, and pine trees stood tall and proud, their scent a sharp-sweet freshness. 

In the middle of the wolf stood one tree taller than all the rest. As white as the Stark banner, with bright crimson leaves the color of blood. The face had been carved in another age long ago yet its mouth still laid open in an agonizing scream and its large eyes still saw all, and wept.

This was a holy place. A sacred place, and Daenerys felt as if she was intruding on something private when Jon kneeled before the heart tree. She started to walk away but he reached out and grabbed hold of her hand, asking the question he was too embarrassed to speak aloud.

Daenerys answered by kneeling beside him and bowing her head. Truth be told she did not know any Gods, not as faithfully as Jon knew the Old ones. Like the rest of the Targaryens since Aegon I, Daenerys was raised in the faith of the Seven. While she occasionally prayed to them in hours of need she never went to a sept nor did the thought of the New Gods invoke any particularly strong emotions in her. Then there were the Targaryen gods of old, the ones they named their dragons for, but she had never cared much about those either. Those gods were set aside by her ancestors when they conquered Westeros.The Great Stallion of the Dothraki blessed her with a son but He would have no power here in the Godswood or the North. 

The Old Gods had power here though, in abundance. So much so that it sent a shudder through her as some unrecognizable force that neither loved nor hated her surrounded the queen, torn between naming her friend or foe.

 _You have protected the Starks for ages,_ she prayed to the old nameless Gods. _Protect them now. Protect Jon. Protect his home. Protect his family. Protect Missandei, Greyworm, Jorah, Tyrion, my dragons, my Dothraki, the Unsullied, the Northmen, my country… protect them all._

_Protect me._

“You used to be taller.”

Jon and Daenerys both turned at the voice of the new arrival.

Jon’s sister Arya. Daenerys knew it at once. She wore the same solemn expression, the same grey eyes, the same dark hair. Just as Jon was it’s solemn and Sansa it’s beauty, Arya was the North’s wilderness. She was the danger of what might happen if you were caught unprepared in a blizzard late at night. 

Jon beamed at the young girl and scrambled to his feet and the two wrapped their arms tight around each other. Their laughs were full of relief, their tearful smiles full of memories neither had ever forgotten.

“How did you sneak up on me?” he asked, burying a hand in her short brown hair when they finally pulled away. 

“How did you survive a knife to the heart?” she asked, a challenge issued if ever there was one. 

Jon just smiled. “I didn’t.” His eyes fell to her waist and the joy on his face made the whole Godswood a brighter place. “You still have it.” Arya pulled a long skinny sword, balancing its edge on a single finger. “You ever use it?”

Another smirk that hid her secrets well. “Once or twice.”

He chuckled at the cryptic answer and unsheathed his own sword. Longclaw, he called it, and handed it to his sister.

“Valyrian steel,” she breathed, eyes looking over the grey and black steel. 

“Jealous?”

She scoffed and shook her head, handing it back hilt first. “Too heavy for me.”

“Where were you earlier?” he asked as he sheathed the steel. “I could have used your help with Sansa.”

Arya’s eyes flickered over to Daenerys who had stayed by the tree allowing them their moment together before she turned back to Jon. “She doesn’t like your queen, does she?” 

At least she had lowered her voice some so Daenerys had a harder time listening.

Jon’s face fell. “She thinks she’s smarter than everyone.”

“She's one of the smartest people I know.”

“Never thought I’d live to see the day you defend her.”

“I’m defending my family. I believe Sansa wants to do what’s best for our family, the same as you. You just have different ideas about how to go about it.” Her eyes fluttered over to Daenerys once more. “Do you trust her?”

His face was aglow with admiration, and the softness in his eyes could have melted the wall. “With all my heart, Arya.”

The wolf-girl nodded slowly before she walked over to Daenerys, eyes the same cool calmness as her sisters. “You’re here to help us?” she asked the queen.

“I am,” said Daenerys. “I’m not worried about politics right now. I just want the North safe.”

Arya looked at her face for a long moment and then, finally, the girl’s expression relaxed, her eyes softened and she smiled at the queen. It was gentle and warm, meant to comfort. “I believe you.” Daenerys shared a relieved look with Jon. “I’m Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Lady Arya.”

“Just Arya, Your Grace. I hope you’ll excuse my sisters… less than warm reception,” she settled on, as diplomatic as her loyalty to her family would allow. “She doesn’t take to outsiders well.”

“I understand why she might be reserved at meeting strangers. I hope to earn Lady Stark’s trust one day, if not for my sake then at least the realms.”

Arya’s grey eyes searched over her face. “You have a very honest soul,” the young wolf whispered softly before she turned back to Jon and wrapped her arms around him again. He held her as if the tighter his grip the more lost time could be made up between them. “I’m glad you’re home, Jon.”

“So am I.”

Arya looked back at Daenerys and gnawed at her lip. “The old stories are unclear. Are only Targaryens allowed to ride the dragons?”

Jon laughed, loud and bold and Daenerys smiled at its sound. “No, others are allowed.” Sensing what was coming next Daenerys inclined her head towards her. “Perhaps when this war is over I’ll take you on a ride.”

Her eyes went big and bright. The scars of painful years melted away and for a moment Arya looked very much like the child she was. “Really?”

“Really,” Daenerys smiled. 

For half a moment she thought the small girl might hug her but even for a girl as wild as the north itself even that would be crossing a line. So instead she just beamed and bowed before she made her way back to the castle.

The queer energy she felt when she kneeled before the Hearttree finally made up its mind.

Daenerys was a friend. Not foe.

Jon walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “You’ve just made that girl the happiest she’s probably ever been.” 

“I’m glad I can make at least one member of your family happy,” she mused and Jon chuckled before a low growl caught them both off-guard. But when Jon turned and saw what had made the racket he smiled as wide as the wall itself.

“Come ‘ere!” he ordered the great white beast as he beamed at the wolf. 

The direwolf didn’t come though. He just stood there, heckles raised as he snarled at Daenerys, pulling his lips back to reveal gleaming sharp white teeth. Jon had told her Ghost was large, almost the size of a horse, but Daenerys hadn’t believed it. She had seen wolves before, they were no bigger than most dogs. But Ghost was not a regular wolf. He was a direwolf, and that meant strength and power and a massive build.

Jon kneeled and held out his gloved hand. “To me, Ghost,” he said, utterly unafflicted by the rumbling growls. “To me.”

Was this how Daenerys looked to others when she had sat there petting her dragons, calling them her precious children as they devoured and burned mens flesh with the utterance of a single word?

Ghost stalked slowly forward, licking his lips and snarling low in his throat, but he did as he was told, standing in front of his master, limbs stiffened. Jon looked up at Daenerys and urged her to kneel again. “He won’t hurt you. I swear it.” There was no lie in his eyes. No worry, no fear, no hint that his words might be wrong. 

Daenerys took a deep breath before she did as he asked and kneeled besides Jon. He grabbed hold of her hand and held it out to Ghost. The wolf leaned forward, sniffing uncertainty and eyeing the girl with a strong mistrust until, finally, his growls softened and he sat on his haunches, eyes as red as dragon fire watching carefully but no longer hating her.

Daenerys stroked the thick white fur atop of his head and when she gave his ear a scratch he licked at her gloved hand.

“I knew he’d like you,” Jon said, patting him on the side before he stood, helping her up from the ground. “He’s a good judge of character.”

“Are there any more of his kind?”

“Beyond the wall probably. But these are the only ones seen south of the wall in three hundred years. We found him and his brothers and sisters the day our father was first told about the White Walkers. Five pups for the five Starks.” A sad smile painted his lips. “And a spare for me.”

She took his arm and laid her head on his shoulder as he stared at the heart tree. “What happened to the rest?”

“Dead and buried except for Arya’s. Sansa’s was the first, a little girl named Lady. Arya’s wolf attacked Joffrey when he went after her and she forced it to run away so it wouldn’t be killed and Cersei demanded Lady in Nymeria’s stead. Greywind was murdered when Robb was.” He swallowed hard and his hand curled around the pommel of his sword. “Bran’s protected him against the dead, and Shaggydog died trying to protect Rickon from the Umbers.”

“I would have liked to have met them. The wolves and masters both.”

“Robb would have loved you. Bran, before he became what he is now, would have talked your ears off with wanting to ride a dragon as well.” 

Daenerys smiled. “I would have been honored to offer him the same option as I did his sister.” She gnawed at her lip. “And Sansa? If we met as girls rather than women? Before the world turned its back on her?”

Jon chuckled sadly and bowed his head. “Sansa as a girl would have killed herself trying to become your friend. I don’t think you would have gotten along though. She was…. Her parents' favorite.”

Her lips tugged upwards. “They spoiled her?”

“That would be putting it mildly,” he chuckled. “I don’t think you would have fallen in with her to be honest. Giggling behind her hands about the cooks lowborn accent, looking down at Arya for playing with the butchers boy or discussing the oh-so important topic of which prince you found the cutest...”

“No,” Daenerys mused, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing herself against him to help shelter her against the cold wind that had begun to blow. “I don’t think we would have been friends. But I do not begrudge her dreaming of the same things all young girls unaffected by horrors dream of. I wish for all our sakes, including hers, she had stayed naive and happy but she grew up. She changed. The world forced her to open her eyes.” Her voice turned hard and stern then. “I do not require her friendship but I am her queen, Jon. The crown and the North have always needed one another, and civil war costs too many unnecessary lives.”

“I know.” He kissed the top of her head. “She will come to respect you as such.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Jon was silent for a long time. When he spoke again he was soft and gentle, hating the words he knew had to be spoken aloud. He did not relish his position nor was he eager for it, but he would not shy away from it if ever the time came. “I am the Lord of Winterfell. If it ever came to a choice between her and you; I would punish treason.”

He held her tighter, and swayed her back and fourth, back and forth the two of them enjoying the silent majesty of the crisp clear winter afternoon. The wind was blowing all the more frigid so they decided to head back to the castle, hoping that their things were set up by the time they arrived. 

When they got back to the court before they could go inside, one of the Dothraki she had put in charge of tending to the dragons came up to her.

“They only ate twelve goats for supper,” Barso told the Khaleesi in his native tongue. Daenerys frowned. Her dragons could eat at least twenty for a meal if they were hungry, and they hadn’t eaten much since they arrived in the North.

“What’s happening?” Jon asked, looking between the Horse Lord and Daenerys.

“The dragons,” Daenerys said in the common tongue as she made her way to the large clearing behind the castle where they chose to make their beds. “They’re barely eating.”

The walk to the meadow was long. Winterfell was only a grey dot in the distance, but in the meadow laid Drogon and Rhaegal, blackened bones of the goats they did eat surrounding them and the snow melted and the earth scorched where they cooked their meal. Steam rose from their bodies, as dragons were oft to do on cold days.

Drogon lowed gently when she approached, and Daenerys ran her fingers along his long black snout.

“They don’t like the North,” Daenerys said, frowning. She could sense it. They misliked the cold, they misliked the smells, they misliked the snows, the ice, the howling of wolves, the lack of sun and the absence of heat. She ran her fingers along his scales before she climbed atop her Drogon, looking down at Jon who was staring at Rhaegal who was staring right back. She nodded towards the dragon. “Get on.”

Jon shook his head, although he didn’t back away when the green scaled beast approached. “I don’t know how to ride a dragon.”

“Nobody does until they’ve ridden one.”

“But… what if he doesn’t want me too?”

She smiled. “Then I’ve enjoyed your company, Jon Snow.” He still looked rather reluctant so she called to him again, and echoed his words from the Godswood. “He won’t hurt you. I swear it.”

He climbed aboard Rhaegal without another moment hesitated or another word spoken. 

“What do I grab onto?!” he shouted.

“Whatever you can!” she yelled back, laughing as he gripped the spikes on his back for dear life. She watched as Rhaegal pushed off from the ground, making sure Jon didn’t slip off before she learned forward. With a loud roar Drogon took to the skies and Daenerys felt more free then the moment she touched down in White Harbor.

Jon flew low over the castle walls. At least a hundred Northmen, including Sansa, gawked up at the dragon and saw Jon on its back clinging to Rhaegal’s beautiful deep green scales. Once they were clear of Winterfell Daenerys took the lead, knowing Rhaegal would follow where she went.

He may have allowed him to ride but he didn’t have the Targaryen blood needed to fully control where he wanted the dragon to go.

The Queen closed her eyes as the icy cold winds whipped through her long silver hair. A lazy smile graced her painted lips as she made her way past the thick forests with castles dotted here and there, all of it covered in blinding beautiful white.

Daenerys loved this feeling more than anything else. She thought she found freedom on the back of the silver mare her Sun and Stars gave her but that was nothing compared to the feeling of soaring on Drogon, unchained from all others.

Up here she wasn’t the queen of the seven kingdoms, she wasn’t mysha, she wasn’t Khaleesi, she wasn’t Aerys Targaryen’s hot tempered daughter, she was Daenerys. Just Daenerys, with no problems, no threats of the dead or green eyed tyrants, no red haired wolf snarling insults at her. Daenerys, just Daenerys, was flying without a care in the world with the man she loved by her side. 

She dipped low into an icy chasm, occasionally glancing back to make sure Jon was still atop the green scales dragon before she pulled up, leading them over a beautiful untouched landscape of snow and ice.

And then Rhaegal was no longer behind her but was in the corner of her eye. Jon was turning him. Jon was controlling him and actually managed to land without incident. 

Jon must have jerked on his spikes so sharply that even without the blood magic that linked Valerians to their dragons Rhaegal knew he must have wanted to land. Yes. That was it. That was all it was.

Drogon touched down besides his brother and Daenerys slid from atop her dragon 

“You’ve completely ruined horses for me,” said Jon, taking her in his arms. 

She chuckled before she allowed herself a moment to take in the sights of where Jon had landed. They were surrounded in by grey stone covered in white. Waterfalls high above them flowed into a crystal clear lake, with large swatches of blue ice decorating the rocks. It was beautiful. It was one of the most beautiful things Daenerys had ever seen. Everything around them was completely untouched by man, and it truly felt as if they were the only two people in the world.

“We could stay up here for a thousand years,” she breathed, “and no one would ever find us.”

The corner of his lips tugged. “We’d be pretty old.” Jon took his queen in his arms. He had no eye for the scenery but instead his gaze was fixed on her. The beauty of the Dragon far surpassed the beauty of the North. “It’s cold up here for a southern girl…”

“So keep your queen warm,” she purred, and then his lips were on hers; hungry, wanting and eager.

She moaned into his mouth as his tongue seeked out hers, filling her with fire. Daenerys clutched at his furs, eager to rip them off, to have him right there in the snows. But instead she slowed her kisses and leaned her forehead against his. 

“Let’s just stay here,” he whispered, his breath mingling with his. “You and me, forever. Let Cersei have the throne, let Sansa have the North. We’ll have our waterfall and your dragons and each other, that’s all we need.”

A shadow of a smile rose to her lips. “We’d never forgive ourselves if we left them to their own devices”

“I think you’d be very surprised at the things I’d be willing to forgive right about now.”

She laughed, the sound echoing in the vast untouched wild and bouncing off the stone. Placating him with a short sweet kiss, she climbed back aboard her dragon. “What do you say we head back to Winterfell?” The queen smirked, licking a snowflake from her lips. “We can see if our chambers are ready yet…”

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

“I can’t believe her,” Sansa spat, her heels clicking on the stone floor of the ball as Brienne followed close behind, silent. “Speaking to me like that in my own home, in my fathers hall! And Jon just sat there and let it happen!”

She threw open the door of her childhood chambers, and stormed over to her desk, crossing her arms over her chest. “He gave the North away for a pretty face,” she grumbled to her sworn shield. “Robb, my mother, thousands of Northmen, their lives all lost for independence and then he goes away and gives it away to a Targaryen, the daughter of the mad king at that.”

“He did bring home two armies and two dragons, My Lady,” Brienne offered. “Maybe it’s best to set aside politics until-.”

“We didn’t ask for help!” Sansa shouted, quickly silencing the tall woman. “He's the one who decided to go south, none of us wanted help from her but Jon!”

“Perhaps he did what he thought was best.”

“Well his best is going to cause a mutanty. The Northern Lords will not stand for this. It’s their sons who lost their lives in the Lannister’s war, it was the Northmen who named Robb and Jon king. They did not ask for the honor, they were chosen.” She shook her head in disgust. “Southerners have brought the North nothing but trouble. None of them can be trusted.”

Brienne shifted uncomfortably where she stood. “I’m not of the North, my Lady,” she muttered, a red blush painting her homely face, the same as it did everytime she attempted an argument. “Neither was Lady Catelyn, nor are the men from Tarth who could have stayed safe on the island but chose to fight for the living instead.

Brienne had written to her father weeks earlier begging the Evenstar to send their men to Winterfell on nothing but her word of honor that they were needed desperately in the North. Selwyn of Tarth wrote back a day later saying that their ships would reach White Harbor in two weeks with 1,000 knights and 3,000 archers all bearing the sun and crescent moon heraldry of Tarth.

“That’s different,” Sansa grumbled. “ **_You’re_ ** different, Brienne, and so is my mother. She had to earn the respect of the North. What has this dragon queen done to gain the respect of anyone here?”

“She saved Jon,” said Brienne. “She offered up her armies and dragons for help in this fight. She set aside her war with Cersei to defend the North.”

“She made stupid decisions for a man she loves. If she had any brains of all she would have let the North be devoured and gone on fighting Cersei. I’d almost respect her more if she had looked out for herself and told us all to rot.”

Brienne’s plump lips pressed into a hard line. “That wouldn’t have been honorable.”

“Being honorable gets you killed.” The swish of a greatsword, the thunk of a severed head on stone steps, cheers of applause rising from the audience of men and women simply looking for some entertainment in their pathetic lives. All of it the macabre musical accompaniment to that dreaded word ‘honor’. “How you’ve made it this long being as honorable as you are is a question only the Gods can answer. Honor doesn’t keep you safe, Brienne,” she said softly. “Power does. Power, and mistrusting outsiders and realizing that everyone has an agenda and is in it solely for themselves.”

Sansa looked down at the table, running her nail over a scratch in the dark wood. She suddenly found she wanted to be alone. “You’re relieved for the evening.”

“Are you sure, My Lady? There are many new faces in the castle, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone just yet.”

“I’ll be fine.” She held her head high. “I do not care how many strangers are here. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home, and all the dragons and Unsullied and Dothraki in the world cannot frighten me.”

After Brienne left Sansa pulled on a cloak of soft grey fur and walked out to the grounds. A sharp wind was blowing in from the north and she shuddered as it pressed its unkind kiss to her pale skin. Sansa knew exactly what was bringing these cold winds and what was more was she knew how close it was.

She wrapped her arms around herself and walked towards the front gates, gazing out at the snow covered lands. In a few days all of this would be the greatest battlefield any of them had ever seen, a war between the living and the dead; an unholy union that the Gods never should have allowed to exist.

Jon, Arya, Brienne, the knights of the vale who rode North on her pleas, the Northmen who fought with everything they had to give the Starks their home back… all of them would be fighting an enemy who didn’t need to eat or sleep or breathe or think or stay warm, who could attack without mercy or conscious… How could they beat them? How could they ever hope to survive much less win?

Sansa wiped away her childish tears welling in her eyes and sniffed away her fears before she went back inside the gates. She furrowed her brow when she saw two of the Dothraki, carrying barrels of dragon glass to the northern gates. “What are you doing?” she demanded as she stormed up to the men. They stopped and shared a look before they turned back to Sansa. “That’s supposed to go to the forges.”

They answered in a foreign language she didn’t understand. But she did manage to catch the one single word she did know in Dothraki. 

_Khaleesi_.

Sansa’s hands curled into a tight fist. “Is the queen trying to hoard the dragon glass for her own sake?” she barked. “Is she trying to sneak the only thing we have to make weapons we have out from under us?”

“They don’t speak the common tongue, M’Lady,” a northern smith said as he came up behind them, also carrying a barrel towards the gates. “But they’re just following Makkers orders, same as me.”

“And his orders were what? Why are you taking the dragon glass out of the keep?”

The smith set it down and wiped the sweat from his brow. He patted the side of the wooden cast. “You’re looking at the catapult fodder. We’re gonna light um up, send um flying, and hopefully kill a few of those dead son of a bitches before they kill us. Pardon the language, M’lady.”

Sansa blinked once. Twice. That was a smart idea. A very smart idea, actually. “That’s quite ingenious actually. Who came up with that plan, Jon? Or was it Makker?”

“The dragon queen, actually,” he answered, hoisting the barrel onto his shoulder again. 

She pressed her lips into a hard thin line. Of course. The men needed their weapons before any additional uses could be made of the dragon glass, and ordering the bulk of them set aside was the perfect way to lose more than a few Northern lives, all the while she would look like some master strategist who no one would think to question it if they happened to win. 

“Do we have enough to spare that we can afford to use them in the trebuchets? The individual weapons NEED to come first before the catapults.”

The smith was taken slightly aback by the abrupt change of tone. “Aye, M’lady, we do. Makker told us to set aside fifty casts. Even if we could move fast enough to get enough weapons done for every man fighting they’ll still be a few dozen barrels left in the forges.”

She didn’t trust it. She trusted Makker, the man had worked in the Winterfell forges since before her father was out of swaddling clothes, but any plan set in motion by the queen…

_She wants to take our dragon glass away? Fine. Two can play at this game._

“Tell Makker the spears and arakhs can wait until we have enough of arrowheads, daggers and swords for the men. There’s no need to waste time or resources on specialized weapons.”

“Oh the spearheads are as easy as the arrowheads to make, they’re just a bit bigger,” the smith said, waving off the order to her great annoyance. “The arakhs take a bit more time and a bit more dragon glass but-.”

“Fine, tell him to save the arakhs for the end then. If the Dothraki are as renowned a warrior as legends say then they can fight with the same weapons the Northmen will use.” 

She could tell the smith wanted to argue, but instead he just gave a curt nod. “I’ll tell him as soon as I get back to the forges, M’lady.”

Without another word Sansa stalked off towards the wooden balconies above the courtyard. A dragon screeched high above them and she immediately crouched down, cursing their music and wishing that Jon or Brienne was here to protect her. It was the green one, the smaller of the two, and flying low enough that she could feel the rush of air as its great leathery wings beat. She gawked with an open mouth as she saw Jon on its back, holding onto its spikes with everything he had before he flew up, up and up over the castle and away from the grounds with Daenerys and her black mount close behind.

For one moment she felt the pain of envy as she watched Jon fly. To soar away on the winds, to be untouchable, to not have to rely on others to help you if you wanted to escape a place, to strike fear into the hearts of your enemies with a single sound and have them know it meant a painful death was close at hand.

She imagined herself with a dragon. It wouldn’t be the great hulking ugly black beast like Daenerys’ was. Her’s would be as white as freshly fallen snow, just large enough to carry Sansa wherever she wanted, and it would have a strong northern name like Brandon or Eddard. She imagined Joffrey and Cersei and Ramsey and all those who had hurt her and her family trembling in fear kneeling before her beast before she unleashed it’s hellish flames on them, melting their skin and blackening their bones. The dream made her smile before reality was back to slap her in the face. 

Sansa would never ride a dragon. No Stark had ever ridden a dragon, but Jon was doing just that this very moment. He was pulling further and further away from the North, from his people, from his family and it was all thanks to Daenerys.

After she made her way to the ramparts she leaned out against them, watching the bustling of activity in the courtyard, the drilling, the preparations, the stragglers who waited until the last moment to come to the safe haven of Winterfell until a familiar set of stunted footsteps joined her. 

“It’s been a while, My Lady.” Sansa glanced down at Tyrion, giving him the briefest flicker of a smile. Maturity on her part and a beard on his had made her see the dwarf as more handsome then she had in her youth. But that golden pin on his breast soured any sweetness she would have had otherwise. 

“The Lady of Winterfell,” he mused. “It has a nice ring to it.”

“So does Hand of the Queen.” She turned back to watch the courtyard, unwilling to hide the bitterness in her tone and unwilling to forgive Daenerys’ rudeness from earlier. “Depending on the queen, I suppose…”

Tyrion opened his mouth but quickly shut it, unwilling to get into politics or arguments at the moment. “The last time we spoke was at Joffrey's wedding… a miserable affair.”

Sansa remembered the way the boy king choked and gasped for air, his green eyes filling with blood and the thick line of drool that ran down onto his handsome doublet, and she smiled. “It had its moments.” But although she had escaped from the clutches of her tormentors, he had not. “I’m sorry for disappearing so suddenly,” Sansa said, finally turning to him. “I didn’t know what was happening, I didn’t have time to think. Ser Dontos told me to run and I ran.” 

“Yes, it was very difficult to explain why my wife’s fled moments after the king's murder.” 

He sounded bitter, and she could not blame him she supposed. But he was alive. He was standing here, one of the most powerful men in the country. “We both survived.” 

“I had a few close calls. Closer than I care to admit… But you have to hand it to Lady Olenna, she did work it all out quite masterfully. No one even suspected her until she told Jaime moments before her own death. Even Cersei still has doubts.”

“Lady Olenna? She was the one who carried it out?” Sansa remembered the old woman coming up to her during the feast, offering her sincerest apologies for her family's death and fiddling with the off-centered necklace. 

_Of course_ , Sansa thought bitterly. _A woman I confided in tried to tie me to Joffrey's death._ If she hadn’t run off with Dontos and they realized the necklace was missing a stone, if they found traces of poison on the jewels... 

Sansa would take it as another lesson to be learned in trust.

“I thought the old woman was going to live forever...” Tyrion said with a chuckle before he looked up at his former wife. “Many have underestimated you. Most of them are dead now.”

Sansa held her head as high as she could. As high as her mother would have. “I’m sure you weren’t thrilled to hear the Lannister army is marching North.” She fought back rolling her eyes but she couldn’t help the humorless little smile that graced her lips. “You have every right to fear my sister,” Tyrion continued. “No one fears her more than I do, but I promise you’ll be safe.”

“Cersei told you her army is coming North,” she said with a raised brow. “To fight for you?”

“She did.”

“And you believe her.” Not a question but a statement aimed to make him see just how stupid his misplaced trust was. 

“I trust her sense of self preservation. She has something to live for now, and I believe she wants to survive.”

Sansa shook her head. She had been just as naive and gullible when she was a child. She had trusted Cersei to help her once upon a time. Sansa thought she would go and talk to her father, reason with him, plead to let her future daughter by law stay in the capital. Her harshest lesson in trust, one much worse than the one she learned through Olenna, with far greater consequences. “You know I used to think you were the cleverest man alive,” she mused to the dwarf before she walked off. 

Though it was still rather early the sun had already begun to fall, the same as it did whenever winter was upon them. A fire was burning in her chambers when she returned to them, and she poked at the logs with a poker, frowning.

Of all her siblings she was the only one who never knew how to make her own fire. The boys were never allowed servants to make theirs, Ned insisted on having them learn to strike a flint in case they were ever caught outside the walls on a cold dark night. Arya too knew how to make a fire, after asking her dad to teach her. But never Sansa. No, she relied on servants and maids to light her fires, she never asked her father to teach her how to keep herself warm, and she never took it upon herself to learn.

The one thing that they needed to fight she didn’t know how to do. Swing a sword, light a fire, fight… She was hopeless. Helpless. Tomorrow night she would wait wherever they decided to put the other useless women and children, praying that her family was alright, and hoping the guards would stand their ground if any of the dead broke through to where they were. 

Sansa threw down the poker and stormed out of her chambers, arriving at Brienne’s on a lower floor just minutes later, knocking on her door.

It always befuddled Sansa, at least for a few seconds, whenever she saw Brienne in regular day clothes. She was thinner than the armor suggested and when she wore just a shirt and pants without the mail it made her already long legs look miles longer. In truth Brienne could almost be considered somewhat womanly in this state, even if she did wear loose fitting pants and a shirt.

“Is everything alright, My Lady,” she asked. 

“I want you to train me to fight.”

“I-... right now, My lady?”

“Tomorrow. With one of the dragon glass daggers. I want to be able to protect myself when the dead finally arrive. Nothing excessive just… I want a little self assurance when I’m down there hiding while everyone else fights.”

She expected Brienne to argue. She expected her to assure Sansa that she would have the guards, that they would be in a safe place, that the offer to have Podrick by her side the whole time was still on the table, but instead the Evenstars daughter just smiled and gave her a curt nod. “I’d be honored to teach you, My Lady. Tomorrow after we break our fast we’ll meet in the courtyard and I’ll show you a few defensive moves.”

Sansa was all but giddy with anticipation. She beamed at the tall woman. “Thank you, Brienne. What should I wear?”

“Your normal clothes. It makes no sense to have you train in breeches and a shirt when you spend most of your days in corsets and gowns.”

She thanked her again and made her way back to her grand hall. She met with the kitchen matron and made sure there were bowls of stew enough for everyone, Dothraki and Unsullied included, Jon’s words from the council meeting ringing in her ears.

Another conversation from an age ago came to the forefront of her mind. One where Sansa told her handmaiden she would have gladly given the mob who tried to put her on her back and take her every which way bread if she had it. But when she remembered back on the conversation she recalled how it had finished; with Sansa talking ill about the king and Shae warning her not to, even to her. When Sansa said that Shae wasn’t the person she needed to be careful around she told the young girl a bit of advice she had needed to take to heart. 

_Don't trust anybody. Life is safer that way._

Sansa hoped wherever Shae was she was as safe and as loved as she had made Sansa feel. Maybe she would ask Tyrion about what happened to the dark haired woman after she left. They seemed to have gotten along well. 

After she left the kitchens she went down to the forges to make sure her earlier orders were being followed, and then to the Maester to make sure his stores were as full as he needed and he assured her it had, thanking her for getting the supplies here just in time with a warm friendly smile that reminded her of the smiles Luwin used to share with them. Her mood soured though when he mentioned the eunuchs and barren women the Dothraki kept as healers that came over with the khalasar brought their own supplies and knowledge which would help immensely on the day of battle. 

Maesters went to the Citadel for years to learn how to heal men and women. What medical knowledge could possibly be gained riding around with a Dothraki horde? If anything they might make the injuries worse, either on accident or on purpose after following the orders of their queen.

“I don’t want the Dothraki healers to work on the Westerosi,” Sansa told the maester. “They can heal their own but they’re to stay away from our men.”

He smiled at her and stroked one of the coils on the long chain around his neck. “My Lady, I’m a Maester. I took a vow never to allow injury to another, be it friend or foe. I cannot prevent someone who wants to heal another.”

“You are also sworn to House Stark of Winterfell,” she reminded him sharply. “The Lady of Winterfell is telling you that you are to tell the healers that traveled with the Dothraki that when the injured come pouring in they are not to touch our men. Is that understood?” When he opened his mouth to argue, Sansa added, “if it is not clear then feel free to start your long journey back to the citadel, and pray that Winterfell is able to hold the dead.”

The Maester bowed his head, and a stab of pity sliced at her heart as he muttered, “yes, My Lady.” She laid a hand on his shoulder and smiled when he lifted his gaze. “You are very learned, Maester Rhodry, and a good man. I know your vows forbade you from causing harm but I promise you that by issuing this order it will save more lives then if you ignored it.”

He answered with a simple, “yes, My Lady,” and the two continued their conversation of supplies and where he would set up his area of healing, although he was much less warmer then he had been when she first walked in.

After they were done it was getting late and she was starving. She was on her way to Arya’s chambers thinking she might ask if she wanted to share a meal when a servant approached her.

“M’lady,” the servant greeted with a courteous bow. “The kitchens would like to know if you would like red or white wine served tonight.”

“I’m sorry?”

“For the meal with Daenerys and King Jon”

Sansa had nearly forgotten.

It would be customary to hold a feast upon the arrival of a monarch but with an overabundance of people and the kitchens needing to work double overtime to feed them even meagerly Sansa had decided against it and instead offered a solution with a small dinner in the private dining room that they used whenever they were hosting important and their families.

She may have hated the silver haired woman but there were still proper courtesies to be followed.

Sansa decided on red and then hurried to her chambers so she might change into something proper, as befitting the Lady of Winterfell.

She called for a bath, sending her handmaids away when she undressed. It had been so long since she had been bathed by another, like Highborn ladies were accustomed to, including her in another lifetime, and she missed it. But she could not bear to see their faces when they saw the horrific map of raised scars on her back caused by knife and scrounge, or the strips of flayed skin long since healed on her thighs. 

Brienne was the one person who knew about her scars, and that was only because she had walked in on Sansa undressing by accident while they were staying at Castle Black. Sansa had to scream and sob and threaten and beg the Tarth maid not to ride down to Winterfell and kill Ramsey with her bare hands. Brienne said she did not fear death, but Sansa told her that it wouldn’t be death that she would need to fear if she was captured by Ramsey. 

As a matter of fact death wouldn't have found the honorable woman for a very, very, very long time.

After Sansa washed herself she dressed and readied herself. Her gown was a soft supple dusty white with long sweeping sleeves that nearly reached the floor. On her bodice was a snarling direwolf, fierce and beautiful, in the same shade of grey as the fur lining her sleeves and the bottom of her skirt. Her red hair she pinned two small strips of hair back and left the rest of it flowing long down her back. She sprayed a dab of northern perfume of sharp pine behind her ear. After checking in the mirror to make sure she looked every bit as fiercely Northern as she could, Sansa made her way to the private hall where she could hear voices already inside; Arya and Jon and Daenerys, laughing and talking with an abundance of joy. Sansa pursed her lips, hating the dragon queen even more so if possible, before she squared her shoulders, held her head high, and opened the doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexitiems coming up next chapter 🥵😏


	4. Chapter 4

Jon and Daenerys stayed in that clearing and for the first time in weeks her mind was cleared of everything else but Jon. They held each other as they sat there beside the waterfall telling each other happier stories from childhood, hopeful and desperate for a reprieve from the horrors of the dead and the pettiness of politics. He told her stories of the days he and Robb would play swords in the Winterfell training yards and she recalled how Viserys used to let her wear their mother’s jewels before he had been forced to sell them. Jon kissed the top of her head and promised to tell the men not to loot any of the Targaryen jewels when they raided the castle and would instead instruct them to give them to Daenerys. 

When the sun began to dip below the horizon they climbed back aboard the dragons, Jon a lot more comfortable this time around as they flew back to the ancient keep. Daenerys couldn’t help but smile as she glanced back and watched him on the back of her child, the exuberant smile that could only come from soaring hundreds of feet above the ground on his face. She was so happy she could share this with him but at the same time… 

Why was he able to so easily control Rhaegal? This was why the Valyrians wed sister to brother. To keep the magic in their blood pure so they might be able to control the dragons without too much of a struggle. Were all the old stories wrong? Were those with no Valyrian blood to speak of able to control dragons? Was it simply lies her ancestors passed down to keep their enemies from getting ideas about riding dragons and making themselves equal in status and war to the dragon lords? 

A much more practical answer was that even now there were houses in the south who boasted of blood ties to the Targaryens. Baratheon, Martell, random descendants of whores or other women who Targaryen kings, princes and lords slept with whose union gave birth to dragon bastards… All of them shared distant kinship with the Targaryens. Could the answer be as simple as Stark unknowingly having an affair with one of these women and the blood of the dragon, although heavily diluted, flowed through Jon’s veins?

Daenerys pushed it out of her mind as the great grey castle came back into view. She was happy Rhaegal was listening to his rider. The reason or rhyme wasn’t important. 

Soon after they arrived back at the castle a servent found Daenerys and told the queen that her chambers were ready for her. Jon smiled at Daenerys and offered the queen his hand, a mischievous glint in his grey eyes. “May I escort you to your chambers, Your Grace?”

Daenerys bit at her lip to keep her smile from spreading too wide as she slid her hand into his. “You may, Jon Snow.”

They raced through the castle laughing and smiling, decorum and etiquette long forgotten. She couldn’t remember the last time she was this happy. 

Daenerys closed the door behind them and without another moment wasted he pushed her against the closed door and attacked her lips with a hunger equal to her own starving mentality. She melted into his kiss as they worked to shed their furs and cloaks, her gown and his shirt. He pulled the silk small clothes up over her head and took a step back, thirsty eyes drinking her in, from her long silver hair on her head to the silky white curls between her legs. Her violet eyes darkened to a deep indigo as the wolf feasted on plump lips already swollen from his kisses, her breasts, her slender waist…

The intensity of it all made her shudder and she had to look away. 

“Look at me,” he begged, voice choked in desperate want. “Dany, please.”

His calloused finger lifted her chin until she was gazing at him again, violet eyes drinking in grey. He kissed her again, slower, longer, more fulfilling, sucking her lip between his own and stroking her tongue with his until she was moaning and a fog swirled around her head, masking everything but him.

His lips caressed her ear, her neck, her jutting collarbone as his hands gripped and massaged her ass. Her fingers combed through the black hair on his chest and danced over the scars, far too many to count, the ones that took the life that was so precious to her. He lifted her up with ease and gazed up at her eyes as she stared down and ran her hands through his hair. It was so soft, and so beautiful

Jon laid her down on the bed and covered her, lips meeting once more. She whimpered as they left, leaving a cruel emptiness in their stead, but a moment later they found a home again as he inhaled the scent between her breasts of fire and heat and her perfume that was only sold in a small marketplace in Quarth and everything’s that was her essence and hers alone. His tongue played with her nipples and she let out a choked gasp as his strong fingers played with its twin.

His teeth scraped, his lips suckled and his tongue tasted her breasts, soft and milky white in the blazing firelight, and when he moved his kisses to her stomach she flinched as if he burned her. Daenerys spread her thighs as he kneeled on the floor and took hold of her ankles, pulling her to the edge of the bed and hooking her legs behind his head. He kissed her thigh, gently nipping at the silk-like skin before burying his head between her legs.

Daenerys gasped as his tongue licked at the creamed honey, flicking it against the bundle of nerves faster than she could comprehend. He kissed and sucked and growled low in his throat as he tasted the honeyed cream, short nails clutching into her thighs. She yanked at his hair and pulled him in closer, tighter, screaming as his fingers curled and stroked and danced inside her.

“Jon!” she cried, strangled voice calling out louder and louder until she was screaming and finally stars and flames danced before her.

She settled back against the pillows, the ceiling nothing but a foggy haze. She saw nothing but the cloudy stones, felt nothing but the sweet aching relief he had given her until Jon climbed back on top of her, and she gasped when she felt him pressing hard against her thigh. She drank in his fevered kisses, gasping as his fingers disappeared between her legs, working her up to a feverish high again until her ache and need was as great as his. Her hands fumbled with the ties of his breeches and she used her feet to push them down when their hands could no longer reach. He gazed down at her, lips trembling before he pushed into her, drawing forth a long lasting moan.

His cock wasn’t as long as Drogo or Daario nor as thick but he filled her wholly and completely. There was no pain when he moved like there had been with the other two, just a fire he was desperate to kindle and then extinguish when the flames grew too hot. He moved into her, over and over again, kissing her lips, her jaw, her face and burying his hands in her long silver hair. She raked her nails down his back, and when she grabbed his ass he groaned low against her throat. 

Jon was stretching her, filling her, pushing, thrusting, moving faster and faster, in and out in and out faster, faster, faster until the dragon was screaming her release and the wolf was howling and followed her moments later, spilling his seed inside her. 

He collapsed on top of her and she wrapped her arms around him, the feeling of him laying on top of her making her feel safe and loved. After he caught his breath he lifted his head and kissed her until both of them thirsty for air and only then did he roll off her but almost at once he took her in his arms. Daenerys turned towards Jon and looked at his face, committing every inch of it to memory. 

“I love you,” he whispered, almost afraid to disturb the comfortable silence between them. 

Daenerys cupped his face and smiled when he turned his head to kiss her palm. “I love you too.”

They both laid there, content in the warm glow of the fireplace and gentle quiet, until there was a knock at her door. Daenerys untangled herself from Jon, parting him with a quick kiss before she pulled on a long silk robe the color of blood and opened the door.

“Your Grace,” Missandei greeted with a bow of her head. She saw Jon laying in the bed and she couldn’t help the smug little grin, turning back to her queen who just grinned at her adviser. “I’m just here to remind you it’s nearly time for your supper with Lady Stark. Do you need help getting ready?”

Daenerys bit back a groan. She didn’t want to be insulting to Sansa in front of her brother but a night with one Stark who loathed her, another who frightened her with his cold stares and cryptic tones was not her idea of a good time. Even if Arya and Jon were there with her, it was not something she was looking forward to. 

“Come to supper with me,” she begged Missandei. If she had to suffer though the petty comments and unnerving stares at least she would have someone on her side apart from Jon. “You and Grey Worm both.”

“I believe this is supposed to be a private dinner, Your Grace. I do not believe I would be considered a suitable guest.”

“You are as suitable to dine with us as anyone I know.” She took hold of her hand and batted her lashes at the woman. “Please?”

Missandei gnawed at her lip before she nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.” Her brown eyes fluttered to Jon again and once again a girlish smile she never wore before the dragon saved her brightened her face. “I’ll be back in a little while to help you prepare.”

With a courteous curtsy Missandei closed the door behind her. When Daenerys turned back to Jon he was pulling on his clothes again. “I suppose I should go and get ready myself.” He gave her a peck on the lips. “It’ll be fine,” he promised with a smile that almost had her believing in his words. “She’s going to use this dinner to get to know you and grow to love you as much as I do.”

“You think so?”

“I do. Our relationship wasn’t exactly love at first sight either and now look at us. It’ll be the same for you and Sansa.”

“Hopefully not  _ everything _ will be the same.”

Jon chuckled, gave her another quick kiss and promised to call on her when it was time to go down to the room they set aside for the dinner. After he left, Daenerys called for Missandei again who drew her a bath. The queen sighed in content as she leaned her head back against the tub as her handmaid washed the day's journey from her skin with a bristly scrub brush. The perfumed water was blisteringly hot and relaxed the queen in a way she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. After her bath Missandei combed her hair until it shone like molten silver and plaited it in a series of elaborate braids that never failed to impress the queen. Daenerys chose a fur lined black leather gown with a high red collar and her three headed silver dragon brooch pinned to her breast and moments after she finished dressing there was another knock at her door.

Jon stood there, dressed handsomely in a dark grey, almost black jacket and Greyworm standing stern faced and solemn behind him.

Jon bowed at Daenerys and offered her his . “Your Grace,” he said, bringing the back of her hand to his lips. She took hold of his arm and allowed Jon to lead her to the private dining room where their small feast was to be held, the two Essoians trailing behind them. 

It was a rather sparse room with a long dark brown table hand carved with a row of wooden direwolves on its edges, the benches carved as well. A large tapestry with a direwolf prowling hung on the wall and the room was lit with low hanging steel chandeliers and black iron brazier with simple white candles. During the day long windows would have given them a magnificent view of the Godswood. It was all rather plain but incredibly ancient like the rest of the castle. Daenerys wagered everything in the room from the tapestries to the dinnerware was older than the Red Keep itself.

Arya and Bran were sitting at the end of the long table but there was no sign of Sansa just yet. The young Stark girl stood when they entered and gave a polite bow of her head to Daenerys. “Your Grace,” she greeted before she looked towards the two who followed them.

Daenerys smiled at the young girl. “I hope you won’t mind but I invited two of my advisers to dine with us. This is my closest friend Missandei of Naath, and the captain of my Unsullied Grey Worm.”

Arya furrowed her brow. “‘Grey Worm’? Is that a title of some sort?”

“All unsullied are given new names when they’re enslaved,” Missandei explained patiently, choosing to leave out the more graphic details of just how young boys become unsullied. “It’s to remind them what they are; inhuman vermin.”

“That’s horrible,” said Arya, face softening. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you, Stark,” he answered with a curt nod.

They all took seats on the benches except Jon who sat at the head of the table in the only chair, a tall wooden piece of furniture with two snarling wolf heads carved into the arms. After a moment of uncomfortable silence Jon looked around the table at the group before he cleared his throat and motioned to the handmaid. “So, Missandei, where are you from?”

Jon knew very well where Missandei came from, they spoke about it at length on the boat ride over. But Missandei answered nonetheless. “I’m from a very small island in the summer isles called Naath. They call it the isle of butterflies.”

“The isle of butterflies? Why do they call it that? Is it shaped like a butterfly?”

“They call it that because Naath is home to thousands and thousands of butterflies. I remember they were quite beautiful, and very large as well. Sometimes there would be so many they would block out the sun.”

“That sounds rather terrifying,” Arya said, but they could all see the excitement burning bright in her grey eyes and Daenerys smiled into her cup. 

“It is,” Missandei said with a slow building grin, recognizing exactly what it is that Arya wanted to hear. “There’s a disease actually called butterfly fever, the natives of Naath are immune but any outsider who comes to the island does a horrible violent death within a day or so. You get a raging fever, followed by painful spasms and then in the end you begin sweating blood, and your flesh melts from their bones.”

Arya whipped towards her brother, eyes wide and her expression eager. “Jon-!”

“You are NOT getting a butterfly!”

Daenerys nearly choked on her wine as she laughed. The rare sound made Jon beam and then he, Arya and Missandei were joining in the laughter as well.

“I’m glad to see you all are enjoying yourselves.”

In their merriment they missed the door opening. Sansa stood there in a beautiful fur white gown. Daenerys stood as did Missandei and Grey Worm. 

“Thank you for hosting this supper, Lady Stark,” Daenerys greeted her with a friendly smile.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she said politely enough, but her eyes drifted to the short sword and hooked-dagger the stern faced man wore on his sword belt. Sansa pursued her lips. “I wasn’t aware we were bringing our masters of war to dinner…”

The air in the mood shifted. The queen smiled and motioned to Missandei. “I hope you don’t mind but I brought my closest friend Missandei to dine with us. Grey Worm is her companion.”

“I see.” But there was an edge to the voice and her gaze didn’t leave the weapons he brought to the table, unfriendly memories dancing in her eyes. She leaned over and whispered to one of the servant’s walking by. “Would you please inform Lady Brienne that I request her presence in the north dining hall?”

“At once, My Lady.”

Jon and Daenerys’ eyes met. He gave her a flicker of a smile before he reached over and grabbed her hand, giving it a tiny squeeze.

When the maid walked off Sansa took her spot across from Daenerys’ at Jon’s left. “I hope the food will be to your liking, Your Grace.”

“I’m sure it will be,” Daenerys assured her. “This will actually be my first Westerosi meal cooked by Westerosi. Before tonight it has been regional cuisine prepared by my Dothraki cooks.”

“You’ll forgive me, I’m not as well traveled as you. What does Dothraki cuisine consist of?”

The way Sansa was able to say the perfect words, as thought she had been groomed since birth to host a party such as this so if one were to ask she could defend herself by claiming her words were innocent, but say it with such a time that it took everything in Daenerys not to reply back with a comment just as snide.

But getting along was important. Not just for Jon’s sake but for the realm. The north needed to be held by a Stark, the Lords would not stand for an outsider, that much was well known. The crown and the north getting along was what gave the realm a relative peace, the moment they tore off the shackles of the crown all hell would break loose. 

So instead she just forced a smile, although she wore it with a tight edge. “Their primary diet consists of horse meat, sweet grass, goats... Pepper plants grow wild throughout the Dothraki Sea so many of their foods include some element of heat.”

“Horse meat?” She could see the disgust in the redheads eyes. “They eat horse meat? I think I’d have rather starved,” she said with a short laugh that no one joined her in.

“When you have an abundance of horses and not much else you take what you can get,” Daenerys snapped back. It was one thing to have an attitude with her but insulting the Dothraki, the people she first found freedom and love and life with... 

“What does it taste like?” Arya asked, hoping to kill the growing hostility in its crib. “Horse. I’ve never tried it.”

She took a deep breath to try to douse the growing fire on her. “A cross between beef and venison I’d say. The Dothraki baste it in peppers and honey. It’s quite good. After the war I’m sure one of the Dothraki would be glad to cook you some.”

Sansa shook her head and took a sip of the wine. “She doesn’t want to eat horse meat.”

“I can speak for myself,” Arya said rather curtly before turning back to the queen. “I’d love to try it. Thank you, Your Grace.”

Sansa silently fumed at the shared smile between her sister and Daenerys, but said nothing else seeing as the servants were beginning to bring in the food for the feast.

If nothing else the menu was intelligently chosen. Nothing overly exuberant seeing as how the cooks were working overtime on the food for the rest of the men but it still represented the North well. Venison steaks dripping with thick brown gravy, mushrooms and onions, roasted winter hare whose skin crisped and crackled, wild boar ribs whose meat slid off the bone and warm crusty bread to soak up all the juices. It was thick hearty food that stuck to a man’s ribs on a long cold northern night. It all looked quite delicious, and tasted as good as it looked. Daenerys just wished the meal wasn’t being hosted by someone who hated her.

Just as they started their meal there was a timid knock on the door. 

“You wanted to see me, My Lady?” Brienne, dressed in her normal deep blue armor and her scabbard buckled around her waist asked once a servant opened the door. 

Sansa smiled and Daenerys saw her shoulders relax slightly. “Yes, Lady Brienne. I was wondering if you wanted to join us for supper.”

Daenerys could see from the look on the tall woman’s face that joining this small feast was the absolute last thing she wanted. “I- I’m not really one for revels, My Lady,” she stammered out.

Sansa’s smile waned some. “Please. The cooks, they’ve made so much, I’d hate for this to go to waste.”

Brienne gnawed at her plump lip. She was not one for arguments so instead she just nodded. “Of course, My Lady. Thank you.”

As she passed by one of the braziers Daenerys saw the light reflecting off the hilt of her sword; gold with three lion heads and rubies for eyes on the pommel, her sword belt a crimson Lannister red. 

_ Why would Sansa want a protector who wielded a Lannister sword?  _ Daenerys thought as Brienne sat down at the end of the bench besides Arya. She thought back to the dragon pit when she saw the tall blonde speak with the Kingslayer in private after Jon pledged himself to the dragon queen, and before that she noticed the silent looks between Brienne and the Lannister twins. If the Maid of Tarth was friendly with the Lannisters AND Sansa, Daenerys would need to watch out for her and figure out what her game was.

But right now, judging by the way Brienne sat with her head bowed and shoulders hunched, trying her best to make herself as small and unseen as she could, she would be lucky to get three words out of the shy woman.

“Lady Sansa, your dress is absolutely exquisite,” Missandei said with a kind smile, desperate to help smooth out the awkwardness that had arisen. “You must have a very talented dressmaker here in Winterfell.”

“I made the gown myself,” she said cautiously, as though expecting an insult to follow.

“Truly? It’s stunning. The embroidery, the needle work, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She smoothed out the wrinkle free gown and fought back a smile. “Thank you. The dress itself only took about six weeks, the wolf was the most time consuming part.”

“Where did you learn how to sew so well?” Daenerys asked. It truly was a beautiful gown, and even from her seat she could see the stitching and embroidery was absolutely immaculate.

The queen could see the memories dancing in Sansa’s eyes. “My mother taught me,” she said, a soft smile gracing her lips. 

This was one thing Sansa wouldn’t allow her mistrust to sour. This was sacred to her, innocent, a connection to Lady Catelyn that death and war and learning the truth of the world couldn’t break, and the queen was glad that the girl still had something that hadn’t been tarnished by her experiences in life.

“Sansa actually made my cloak as well,” Jon added with an affectionate look towards his sister.

She bowed her head and the corner of her lips tugged up in a shy little grin. For the first time since the Queen arrived at Winterfell the redhead seemed to be genuinely happy. “The cape wasn’t difficult at all to be honest... I made one for Lady Brienne as well.”

“Such a talent,” the queen gushed. Maybe this could be what bonded them, what made Sansa see she was here only to help, to see her as someone who might join her family one day. “You must make something for me.”

Any prior happiness was washed away in the blink of an eye. Sansa’s hand curled around the stem of her cuo and clutched it so hard she nearly cracked the glass. “I’m the Lady of Winterfell, not some seamstress,” she spat. Anger, loathing and hate dripped with every syllable. Daenerys’ jaw dropped at the sudden shift of mood. “If you want a gown you can learn to make it yourself!”

“Sansa!” Jon barked as his sister rose from the table. “She was being kind to you! You have no right-.”

“This is my home and I have every right!” she shouted. She made to leave but Jon caught her by her wrist and yanked her back. Brienne stood up quickly, resting her large hand on the hilt of her sword.

“You take your hands off me,” Sansa growled wrenching out of his grasp and storming out of the room. Brienne gave a quick bow to Daenerys and bid her goodbye with a muttered but polite, “Your Grace,” shot a sharp look towards Jon and followed Sansa from the hall.

“What in the Seven Hells is her problem?” Jon spat as he sat back down again, stabbing at his venison with his fork. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment before he turned towards a befuddled Daenerys. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over her.”

“I didn’t mean to cause offense.”

“I know, Your Grace. I don’t-... making a gown for the queen is something she would have given her right arm to do at one time, I don’t know-... I’m sorry. You do not deserve this disrespect. Not only as her queen but as a guest in her home.” 

“You shouldn’t have grabbed her,” Arya told him. “She was wrong for how she reacted but you shouldn’t have touched her. Mother would have cuffed Sansa for how she spoke but Father would have killed you if he saw how you grabbed her.”

Jon bowed his head and nodded. Shame and guilt danced in his grey Stark eyes. “You’re right,” he muttered. “I don’t know why I did that.  **_No man_ ** should ever…” He shook his head and stood from his chair. “Forgive me, My Queen, Lady Missandei. I’m no longer in a feasting mood.”

With a polite bow of his head Jon hurried from the room. If that hadn’t ended the feast Bran suddenly turning to Arya and asking to be taken out to the southern gate so he could wait for ‘an old friend’ did. Soon Daenerys, Missandei and Grey Worm were the only ones left in the dining hall.

“The Stark girl had no right to speak to you like that,” Grey Worm said in his stern tone.

“I thought Highborns are taught to be gracious hosts,” Missandei added. “But from what I’ve seen of the Lady Stark... Your Grace forgive me but if those under her heard how she treats you with such disregard that could lead to a trend.”

“I pity her,” Daenerys said, staring at a spot in the stone wall. “Life has not only been unkind, but what is worse is it was unkind after she was told all of her dreams could come true and the world was hers.” She thought of her brother. “That can do terrible things to a person, more than if they’ve grown up knowing the truth of the world.”

“Even if she has your pity, you must think about the message this sends. Even those in Essos knew of the North's loyalty to the Starks. I remember when news of his execution reached him, Kraznys said there would be another war. He even wrote to the Lannisters and Starks both, asking if they would be willing to buy a company of Unsullied for their war.”

“How do I gain the respect of someone who mistrusts me? Everything I say and do she seems to take as a challenge.”

“I do not understand these Westerosi,” Grey Worm said. “Do they not know what you did? How you freed the slaves and punished the Masters? How could they not follow you?”

“No one here cares about slavery. It’s been outlawed for thousands of years in this country, it’s a crime worthy of death if you partake in the practice. Me punishing the masters is just something they see as something that should have happened long ago, they will give me no credit for that nor will I ask for it. I did not free slaves for the admiration from my fellows.”

“But even still your enemy is the Lannisters, not the Starks. The Starks hate the Lannisters. If one is determined to end your enemy for them…”

“Some people see ruling as a game rather than what it should be,” Daenerys said as she rose from the table. “Sansa is playing a game right now, and I will not join. Not if I can help it.” Grey Worm and Missandei also stood but Daenerys waved them away. She saw the growing pile of rib bones on his plate and saw Missandei eyeing a second piece of rabbit. “Stay and eat. This meal was for me afterall, someone should enjoy it. Anything you don’t finish take out to the men, ours and the Northmen.” 

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Daenerys left them alone with the platters of food and began to make her way back to her chambers, only stopping when Jorah called out to her.

“Khaleesi,” he said with a warm smile. “There is someone I would like you to meet. The man who saved my life in the Citadel, Samwell, he’s here in Winterfell.”

Daenerys often wondered about the brave intelligent boy who defied orders to save the man who meant the world to her. All the gold in the Westerlands would not be enough thanks. “Take me to him.” 

Jorah led him down several flights of stairs to a large dark library, some of the books and scrolls as old as the castle itself. The air was thick with age and dust and the candles burned low. One man, a large boy, sat hunched over some yellowed scrolls, eyes darting back and forth as he read. He wore the colors of the Night Watchmen. 

Daenerys cleared her throat and the boy stood up in a hurry, dusting himself off. His brown eyes were kind, his face friendly. 

“So you're the man?” she greeted him.

“Um. Which man am I, Your Grace?” The boy sounded nervous but as respectful as anyone she had met in this country so far. 

“The one who saved Ser Jorah when no one else could.”

“They could,” Jorah added with a smile.” They just wouldn't.”

“I'll have to make some changes in the Citadel when I take my throne. A great service merits a great reward”

Sam blushed, trying to wave off his accomplishments. “Oh, it's my honor to serve you, Your Grace.”

At last, someone in this country who truly and wholly respected her reign. 

“Well, there must be something I could give you.”

His hands came together and knotted themselves together nervously. “If it's not too much trouble, I could use a pardon…”

“For what crime?”

“Um, I borrowed a few books from the Citadel.” Daenerys had to bite back a laugh as she shared a smile with Jorah. “And also a sword.”

She raised a brow in his direction, not understanding what he was asking. “From the Citadel?”

“From my family,” he corrected. “It's been in House Tarly for generations.”

Her face fell. Any amusement gone. 

“It would've been mine anyway, eventually, but my father had other ideas.”

“Not Randyll Tarly?”

The very name itself seemed to strike fear into his heart. “You know him?”

Jorah bowed his head and Daenerys swallowed hard. This was not what she wanted to give her knights rescuer. “I offered to let him retain his lands and titles if he bent the knee,” she explained not unkindly but still rather firmly. “I would have offered the wall but he refused to even recognize me as his queen. I had no choice.”

Sam’s large chin trembled slightly. He swallowed a hard knot in his throat. “I… don’t know if I should be upset or revelieved,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “He was a cruel man but… he was still my father.”

Daenerys thought of her own brother, her own father. “You are allowed to feel whatever you wish.”

He nodded and took a shuddering breath. His lips flickered up in a sad smile. “Well… at least I'll be allowed home again, now that my brother's the lord.”

Daenerys forced herself to hold her head high. “Your brother stood with your father.” Sam’s lips started to quiver and his breath became shaky. “Your father urged him to bend the knee, but he refused to heed us both. They were both very brave in their deaths.”

Sam wiped the tears from his eyes as he nodded again. “Thank you, Your Grace. For telling me. And m- may I?”

“Of course.”

He managed a trembling bow of the head before he walked off, leaving the queen with an empty stomach and a full head…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully a few more details about their deaths can soften Sam up but we shall see....


	5. Chapter 5

Jon stared up at the stone face of his father. It didn’t look much like him. They gave him a hard, stern face, the face of a soldier and commander. But it was bereft of any of his love or laughs or wisdom. Sansa once spoke about hiring another sculptor who knew his face but then war took over their minds and nothing had moved forward on that front. 

Jon and Sansa personally oversaw the sculpting of Rickon’s. His was several feet away from Ned, giving room for Sansa, Arya, Bran and Jon’s eventual home here. His hair was soft curls, his smile wide, his eyes bright as if in play. It was how both wanted to remember their littlest brother, with the big black wolf at his feet. 

There were miles and miles of empty space to lay other Starks for generations to follow, and it stretched so far back that Jon had never gone to see the first of the line buried, it’s statues turned to nothing but dust and the swords at their feet nothing but a red rust stain.

Lady, Sansa’s direwolf, rested a ways away from Ned, a way to prevent Cersei from getting her hands on her coat. A beautiful statue of a young friendly wolf with pink ribbons tied about her throat and five more empty spaces beside her for her siblings, three of which would never be filled. One day; Sansa would rest next to the wolf with the pink bow just as Jon would rest besides Ghost. 

Jon tried not to think about the four statues that may end up here in the coming weeks (if there were any left alive to sculpt or even bury the dead.) Lyanna Stark, laid to the left of Ned, a red feather in her outstretched hand. 

Jon had never paid that one much attention.

“Tell me what to do,” he begged his father. “Show me how to defeat this enemy… Show me how to protect Daenerys, show me how to protect our family and our home, tell me how I make Sansa see the truth about the woman I love... Help me. Please.” 

Nothing but silence answered.

He sighed and kneeled before him, bowing his head, muttering the old prayers when a loud crash and crying out interrupted his moment of solace. Jon immediately rose and walked until he saw a large man in black groaning from the bottom of the steps he fell down.

“Sam,” he breathed, a wave of emotions crashing over him. It had been so long since he saw his friend, his best friend. Before he took a knife to the heart for the Watch.

“Sorry,” Sam groaned as he stood. “I know I’m not supposed to be down here-.”

Jon wouldn’t hear anymore. He hurried over to his brother and wrapped him in a bone gripping hug, pulling apart and beaming at him. “What are you doing here? You can’t have read every book in the citadel already.” His smile fell as the lights of the torches reflected the tears in his eyes and rolling down his face. “What’s wrong? Gilly? Is she alright?”

“She’s fine,” Sam sniffed.

“Little Sam?”

“He’s perfect.” Sam gnawed at his lip for a moment. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“Daenerys…” He wiped at the tears in his eyes. “She executed my father and brother.” Jon’s eyes went wide with shock. “They were her prisoners.”

“Oh Sam… Sam, I’m so sorry…” He swallowed hard, but he was unwilling to judge or condemn her yet. There had to be more to the story. Daenerys wouldn’t have burned two prisoners indiscriminately. “You say they were her prisoners...”

He went over and sat down on the steps, Jon following. “She offered a choice. Bend the knee or burn. My father refused to recognize her claim, my brother stood with him.”

“Sam… I-... Remember Slynt? He would not respect my rule. I didn’t want to execute him but I could not let the disobedience slide.”

“I remember.” His lip trembled with a teary smile. “He died weeping. More of a coward then I was when faced with death.”

“If she told them to bend or burn and they refused…” Sam nodded wordlessly, accepting his premise and his words. “A queen must make good on her promises **_and_ ** her threats. Her people have to trust her word, no matter what that might be. Daenerys is a good woman. A good queen,” Jon said. “She wouldn’t have done what she did without cause.”

“I know. I know she did what she had to do, I just… The world is better without my father in it. Even though I know my mother will hate me for saying it, even if the Gods will punish me for saying it, it’s true. But my brother...”

“I heard tales of his heroics,” Jon lied, but if it would help console his friend… “He was a good soldier, a good man.” 

“She said they died bravely. I believe that.” Sam took a shuddering breath and wiped away the last of his tears. He turned to look at his friend and Jon felt himself smiling. Sam would not make him choose between him and his queen, and he was glad for it. Because she would win. Without question, working a moment's hesitation or second thought, and he did not want to hurt his friend more than he had been through.

Jon clapped him on the shoulder and helped him to his feet. “As Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I relieve you of your vows to the Nightswatch with a full pardon. After this war, which you will all survive, you will take your rightful place of Lord of Hornhill.”

Sam’s face fell once more. He looked down at the ground. “You aren’t… you aren’t Lord of Winterfell though.” When he turned his gaze back towards Jon his expression was queer. Guilt and apprehension rather than sorrow. “You’re a king, Jon.”

He shook his head. “Not anymore. I gave up my crown for the North.”

“I’m not… I’m not talking about the King in the North. I’m talking about the King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon chuckled. “Me and Daenerys haven’t yet married.” His mind filled with thoughts of Daenerys in a gown of beautiful black and red and ivory, him in the colors of his House as they kneeled before a heart tree pledging eternal love to each other. A direwolf cloak would be draped around her shoulders, a promise to protect her always. 

“I know,” Sam said, drawing him from the happy picture of the future.

“Then what are you talking about?”

“Bran and I, we worked it out. I had a High Septons diary I found at the Citadel, Bran has… whatever Bran has.” Another shaky, fearful breath. “Your mother… was Lyanna Stark. And your father… your _real_ father… was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Jon stumbled back, body trembling and eyes wide. No. No, that can’t be. 

“You’ve never been a bastard,” Sam continued, but he sounded distant, far away. “You’re Daeron Targaryen, the third of his name, the true heir to the Iron Throne .”

His mind was racing a million miles an hour as a thousand different thoughts screamed at him. His heart was pounding and his lungs were reluctant to take in air. This was a lie. It had to be. He was a bastard, the son of Ned Stark, he wasn’t a king, he wasn’t heir to the throne.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s a lot to take in,” Sam offered as a means to console, but Jon ignored him. The statue of Ned caught his eye and a sudden rage consumed him.

“My father,” he breathed in a harsh whisper, his voice trembling as much as his hands. “Was the most honorable man I’ve ever met… you’re saying he lied to me all my life? Allowed me to believe I was a bastard, allowed me to believe that… That I was just a mistake. Some lapse of honor and judgement?”

“Your father, Ned Stark, he promised your mother he would always protect you. And he did, Robert would have murdered you if he knew.”

“He still lied. He… He could have come up with a different, a different lie, he- an orphan boy he found in the war, a son of a Northern Lord who fell on the battlefield…”

“I don’t think that part doesn’t really matter.”

“ _It doesn’t matter?_ My father lied to me my whole life! He lied to his wife, my siblings, his bannermen, everyone! He sat there and allowed others to call me a bastard and you’re telling me it doesn’t matter?!”

“It- it does!” Sam said quickly. “It does matter, but I’m saying in the grand scheme of things, right now that’s a minor issue. You are the true king. Daeron Targaryen, the third of his name, protector of the realm, all that.”

His stomach lurched dangerously. He swallowed the bike rising in his throat. “Dany…” he breathed, the name a dagger to the heart. “Dany… Daenerys…” He closed his eyes and as painful as it was he forced himself to breathe. “Daenerys is our queen,” he said harshly, daring anyone to contradict him. 

“In spirit yes, but not legally. I’m so sorry.”

Jon closed his eyes again. “What am I going to tell her?”

“The truth. She has a right to know. Just as you did.”

Jon didn’t remember nodding in agreement. He didn’t remember walking out of the crypts, he didn’t remember Bran’s eyes following him into the castle as he sat out in the courtyard, saying nothing and remaining still except to give him a nod of his head, a confirmation of what Sam told him minutes earlier, what Jon knew to be true.

It was as if the moment he learned, his heart knew it. There was no doubt in his mind, there was no reason to assume they were lying. It was as if a thousand different weights and questions were lifted off his shoulder as if they were burned away. Even the name Daeron felt like a warm familiarity to him, like a long lost friend coming home and wrapping him in a hug. He remembered when he was a boy and he read about the histories of the kings, how he would linger over Daeron I and II’s histories. 

It was real. He was not Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard. He was not Robb and Aryas, Sansa and Bran and Rickon's brother. He was Daeron Targaryen. His siblings were Aegon and Rhaenys. His father was Rhaegar Targaryen, his mother Lyanna Stark. 

And he was the heir to the iron throne. 

He found himself outside Daenerys’ door and he knocked, being greeted by the queen.

The Queen. Yes. That was Daenerys. Jon never once thought about taking that from her, nor would he ever. But would she believe him? She had to. If he lost her for this… 

She answered the door, braids undone and silver hair long and loose, and the glow of the fading firelight giving her an ethereal glow that was beautiful and terrible and awesome and would have sent men to their deaths for the chance to look upon her.

“Are you alright?” Daenerys asked. When he didn’t answer she lifted her hand and rested it on his face. “Jon-.”

He kissed her. His lips trembled against hers as he kissed her over and over, pushing her into the room and burying his hands in her hair. “I love you,” he whispered fiercely when he finally found the strength to pull away. “So much, my Queen. So much.”

“Jon, you’re scaring me,” she told him. Her violet eyes were wide. “What’s happened?”

He closed his eyes, fighting back his tears. 

“Everything.” 

When he opened them up again he looked at her. His shaking fingers brushed the silver hair from her face. He didn’t want to tell her. He wanted her to live in ignorance, to think she was the last Dragon, to think her right to rule was as legal as it was a divine right. But he owed her the truth. He owed it to her to make her choices, even if it cost them.

“Lyanna Stark…” he forced himself to begin. Even the name itself sounded familiar to him, and filled him with a warmth and a love that he never felt before. 

Daenerys bowed her head and nodded. “Everyone told me my brother Rhaegar was a kind and decent man. He liked to sing, he gave money to poor children… And he raped her.”

Jon licked his lips. His mouth grew dryer then the deserts of Dorne and it almost hurt to speak. “He didn’t. He loved her. They were married in secret. After Rhaegar fell on the trident, she had a son.” The words were coming quicker and quicker now, he couldn’t stop. If he did, he didn’t know if he would be able to speak of it again. “Robert would have murdered the baby if he ever found out, Lyanna knew it. The last thing she did, as she bled to death on her birthing bed, was give the boy to her brother, Ned Stark, to raise as his bastard.”

The realization came to her then. Her violent eyes went wide and her lips fell open. Her breath shook as much as her hands and Jon hated himself for making her feel like this, but she had to know.

“My name,” he continued, biting back tears. “My real name… is Daeron Targaryen.”

Daenerys stepped back from him and the absence of her was the most painful thing he ever felt. Even she knew it. He could tell it from the look in her eyes that she knew what he was saying was true. “That’s impossible.”

“It isn’t.”

“Who told you this?” she demanded, rage starting to replace her grief.

“Bran. He saw it.”

“ _He saw it_?”

“And Samwell confirmed it. He read about their marriage in the Citadel without even knowing what it meant.”

“So a secret no one else in the world knew except your brother and your best friend doesn't seem strange to you? A secret Sam confirmed right after I told him I executed his family.”

“He doesn’t hold that against you. Someone had to tell me, it just happened to come from him.”

“Indeed,” she growled, turning away from him. Jon hurried in front of her, arms out in front of him to stop her. 

“It’s true, Daenerys,” he said. “I know it is. You know it is…”

She swallowed hard. “ **_If_ ** this is true… that makes **_you_ ** the last male heir of House Targaryen. You’d have a claim to the Iron Throne.”

“I don’t. You are the Queen. Now and always.”

“You are the heir!” she shouted. “You have the best claim, you are the last dragon!”

Jon ripped the glove off his right hand and thrust his hand in her face palm showing. The now stuff raised white scars from the burn he got ages ago when he saved Mormont still lingered. “Does that look like a dragon to you?” he yelled, desperate for her to believe him. “Can fire harm dragons, can fire **_kill_ ** a dragon?” 

His words made her gape up at him with wide eyes and her jaw dropped. 

“What did you say?” she whispered.

Jon sighed, and buried the hand in her long silver hair. “You walked into the fire and came out the other side with three dragons. You brought magic back to the world. **_You_ ** are the last dragon. **_You_ ** are the queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I don’t know what I am, but what I do know is that destiny or the Gods or whatever divinity that makes the choices of this world choose **_you_ ** to be our queen. Who cares about legalities and men’s laws?” 

He kissed her again. She stayed frozen, her lips unmoving but he didn’t care. “All I care about is you, and you are my queen.” Jon kissed her again, and again, and again, kissed her until she moaned. “My queen,” he whispered between kisses. “My queen, my queen, my beautiful queen, my beautiful dragon...”

He started to move his kisses down but she grabbed his face and lifted it again until he was standing. While her rage faded, doubt lingered. She stroked his black curly hair. Lyanna’s hair. “I need a moment to think. Please. I’d like to be alone.”

Jon nodded. He took so much away from her tonight, this was the least he could give her. 

He bowed low. “My Queen.” A common courtesy when one left a monarch but it meant so much more now, to both of them. When he went to leave though, Daenerys reached out and took hold of his hand. He turned back around and when he did Daenerys pressed her lips to him and cupped his face. 

“I want to be alone,” she said again in a pained whisper. “But don’t you dare go so far away that I can’t call you back again.”

A sad smile made her lips flicker upwards. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He reached down and gave her hand a squeeze before he turned and left her as per her wishes, shutting the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope I fixed Sam for a lot of yall in an in-character kind of way. He is legit one of my faves in the show, he’s so soft and sweet, and I hated what they did to him. So if this made him better in your eyes then feel free to take this as canon lol.  
> Also Daeron I brought Dorne into the fold and Daeron II was a very good king who knew sometimes diplomacy was better than battles and that name just seemed right for Jon considering the history of his namesakes. Rhaegar wouldn't name two of his sons the same name. Idc if he didn’t love Elia and thought Jon was the PtwP, he wouldn’t do that to his other son.  
> Also I know I didn’t have Jon or Dany mentioning the aunt/nephew aspect but I mean that’s the thing, it’s perfectly normal incest for Westeros, not just Targaryens. The only thing the rest of the country has issues with is brother/sister or parent/child because if there’s really only a handful of families you’re allowed to marry, you’re gonna be committing some incest. It wouldn’t be a negative or positive impact, it’d be like ‘omg I’m dating a blonde!’ So he wouldn’t need to make it clear it doesn’t bother him because it’s an absolute non-issue already if that makes sense. Hell they were gonna marry Robin Arryn to Sansa and no one, even Sansa, blinked at that lol.


	6. Chapter 6

Daenerys gazed out over the untouched snowy fields of Winterfell. A million stars dotted the sky, and the moon shone down on the fresh fallen snow, giving it a bright luster as though it were midday. Her breath came out in a sharp cloud of white, and when a cold wind howled as she stood out on the roof of the castle she clutched her robe tighter, and shivered.

She knew it was the truth, what Jon had said. He was the heir to the Iron Throne, he was Rhaegar’s son. Jon was the last dragon. Her destiny was a lie, her title was a lie. All her hopes and dreams came crumbling down like an unbalanced statue built too far up and too fast, and what was worse was it was the man she loved who destroyed it.

A silent tear rolled down her cheek and she quickly wiped it away. Daenerys would not weep. She would not give her enemies that satisfaction, even if they could not see her. Not Cersei, not the Masters, not Sansa or the Kingslayer, not her brother or Robert long since rotted in their graves... none of them.

She took a shuddering breath as she stared out over the horizons. In the distance a dragon roared and what should have brought her joy was just another dagger in her heart. Even Rhaegal recognized him as a Targaryen. He was able to control him, he listened to his demands, Jon’s blood sang to her dragons just as her’s did.

Targaryen blood ran red hot through his veins, the same as Daenerys’. The blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Jon’s blood and heart and soul tied to her, just as she was tied to him. Dragon and direwolf, fire and ice.

Jon was a Targaryen. Daeron Targaryen, the Third of his name. Somehow, through all the anger and grief and doubt and confusion, a smile made its way to the surface as the realizions of what that meant became clearer to her. Daenerys had a family. She was not the last of her name, the Targaryen name and legacy would not die with her. 

A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing, but now she was not alone. Not any longer.

Her throne, her ruling, the complications that would arise if anyone were to find out… All of that seemed to dim in the light of a dream she had clung to for so long, like a starving man savoring the last bite of bread before being presented with a feast that might poison you if you were not careful.

Tywin Lannister had not slaughtered all of Rhaegar’s children, the Kingslayer did not kill their line as he had likely hoped. Daenerys had a family, a family who loved her, who would protect her, who would never strike her or threaten her or sell her for a chance at a crown that everyone but him knew would never sit on his brow.

But with this new light came a stain she could not wash out no matter how hard she scrubbed to see the white beneath. Jon was the heir. If the Lords of Westeros found out Rhaegar had a trueborn son, raised by a man with a high reputation of honor, who could keep the North in the seven kingdoms and prevent another civil war, a fighter, a commander, a king… They would force him to press his claim just as the Northmen did. They would demand Daenerys step down. Even if they were to marry, her heart did a wild mad little flutter at the thought, Jon would sit on the throne, the small council would work at his discretion, his word would be law, not hers.

And if they found out Daenerys’ was barren they would press Jon to take on a mistress and give the realm an heir. If he refused after they passed the throne would go to Bran or Sansa, the closest relatives Jon had even if they weren’t legally siblings, and the Targaryen reign of Westeros would finally come to an end with a whimper and its bones devoured by wolves.

Daenerys wasn’t sure which one she would prefer. Jon sharing a son with another woman and the Targaryen legacy lives on despite her pain of knowing he was with another woman or him staying faithful and letting the dragon's name die with them. 

More tears fell that she hurried to brush away. She stared out at the fields of white for a moment longer before she made her way back inside the keep. The sky was beginning to lighten and she hadn’t had a wink of sleep since she arrived in this city. She was bone tired and exhausted.

As she laid there in the feather bed, Daenerys rested her hands behind her head. She would talk to Jon tonight, she decided as she pulled the furs up around her. He would want his space to figure this all out as well. While Daenerys was dealing with the potential loss of the throne, Jon had lost everything that made him who he is. The man who raised him and inspired his morals was not his father and lied to him his whole life, his siblings were not his siblings, he was not what others spat and sneered at him all his life and he was the heir to a throne he did not want.

Her last thought as she drifted off to sleep would comfort him when he was ready to talk, just as he tried to comfort her. But it seemed like she hadn’t even closed her eyes for a second when there was a knocking on her door. 

“Your Grace,” Missandei’s voice rang through the wood, rousing her from a much needed sleep. Daenerys forced her violet eyes to open. The early morning sun was shining in her chambers but it was still far too early to rise. She was about to ask Missandei to come back and allow her a few more hours of sleep when she spoke again. “Your Grace, it’s an emergency.”

Daenerys stumbled out of bed, pulling her robe around her. The fire had died down in the middle of the night and she shuddered as her bare-feet made their way across the stone floor. 

“What happened?” she asked when she opened the door. “Is it the dragons? Jon?”

Missandei shook her head. “There was a rider this morning from the south.”

“Who

“They said his name was Jaime Lannister.”

She took a deep breath to try to muffle the fire just the mention of his name brought her. “I don’t want any of his army settling near ours,” she settled on. “There’s a large unclaimed field to the east of the keep, they can set up camp there.”

“You misunderstood me, Your Grace, there is no army. The Kingslayer came alone.”

Daenerys’ hand curled into a fist, her nails digging into the palm of her hand. Cersei lied to her, she had no intentions of sending her armies north, she had no intention of honoring the truce they made and now she sent the Kingslayer to what? Slit her throat as she slept? Report her full strength back to the queen after the war was over? Tyrion promised her that Cersei would keep her word, ‘she has something to live for’ he told her whenever Daenerys voiced her doubts but he was wrong, and he may have cost her the throne because of it.

“Where is the Kingslayer now?”

“Lady Sansa ordered his arms confiscated and confined to a tower cell.”

That shocked her. She would have thought the man who ended the Targaryen reign would be welcomed with open arms by the Stark girl.

“Help me dress,” she told the handmaid who nodded and shut the door behind her.

There would be no softness to be had in her gown she choose. It was pitch black leather with blood red steel dragon scales around the bodice. Missandei pulled all of her hair back into a long thick braid, leaving only two silver strands framing her pale face. When Daenerys looked in the reflecting glass she held her head as high as she ever had before. She was fierce, she was dangerous, she was Visenya Targaryen come again. 

She was a dragon

With another deep breath not to steady her nerves but quell her fire, Daenerys made her way into the great hall where a mass of people had gathered. Jon and Sansa sat at the high table, just as they did before. Jon was looking off in the distance when she arrived but when he finally noticed her, he gave her a sad sort of smile before he became lost in himself again. Sansa sat there, head held tall, doing her best to wear that mask of coolness and indifference but up close she could see the anger brewing in her eyes as well. 

Daenerys tried to catch Tyrion’s eye but he was too frightened to meet her glare and he sat there at the edge of the high table, pale green eyes looking terrified and wiping the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand.

When Daenerys was seated everyone followed suit. She noticed that just as it was the day before the Northmen waited until Jon took her seat before they sat. All except Brienne who appeared almost as nervous as Tyrion was, though she was having a much better time hiding it, and sat quickly this time as though afraid the strength in her legs might give out if she stood too long. 

Her hand curled around the arm of her chair. She was in no mood for these petty games from these Northmen, not today. 

“Jon Snow,” she said, glaring out at the gallery. 

“Yes, Your Grace?” he replied, her voice bringing him out of his distracted mind. 

“What is the proper courtesy in the North when a monarch takes her seat after she’s entered the room?”

There were various grumbles throughout the crowd but none of them spoke up. 

“To sit in the moments after she has,” Jon answered. She was delighted to hear a bit of a sharpness in his tone as well. Apparently he caught the pettiness in the actions as well as she had. 

“It’s not to wait until the Lord of Winterfell has taken her seat?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“You can imagine my surprise then, at the disrespect I’ve suffered with this pettiness that, what, you think I wouldn’t notice?” She was speaking to the crowd now, and no one answered her. Except one man who stood up and glared at Daenerys, the same man who called her a whore the other day. 

“We know no king but the king in the north whose name is Stark!” he spat. “What right do you have to rule here, or chastise us?!”

“The right of queens, My Lord!” she barked back. “And if any of you were unaware, let me make something perfectly clear! If you, or anyone else, suffers me anymore disrespect or refuse to kneel I will not put you in chains! I will give you the gift that men in chains often beg for!”

Sansa’s face was one of pure and absolute aghast and shock. Jon, meanwhile, was looking out over his people with a fearsome glare as if to say, ‘you brought her to this’. The man who she threatened was red with anger but he didn’t say another word and instead just sat back down in a huff. Daenerys turned to Grey Worm. “Bring the Kingslayer to me  **_now_ ** .”

He gave a curt nod and left with another Unsullied in tow. There were low mutterings throughout the gallery but they were nothing to her. She had bigger and more important things to worry about other than a few unruly Northmen.

When the doors opened Daenerys took in a sharp breath as the Kingslayer walked in, flanked by her men. Fire and blood and hate overwhelmed her to the point her head swam as she looked at the man who murdered her father after he swore to protect him, who swore to protect Elia and Aegon and Rhaenys and let them all perish at the hands of his father.

Daenerys wasn’t sure why but she always pictured the 17 year old boy he was when he stabbed Aerys no matter how time passed, as if some dark magic would have frozen him in time. But time worked it’s curse on him as much as any other man. His golden mane was streaked with grey and lines were pulling at his bright green emerald eyes.

He was still handsome, obnoxiously so, but it had been a rough ride to Winterfell, his clothes lowborn and plain, not the exuberant red and gold armor she saw him in at the dragon pit or when he tried to murder her on the Goldsroad. A flash of something caught her eye as he moved past the candlelight and she would have laughed had she not been enraged at the sight of him.

The hand that carried the sword that slit the king's throat was gone, in its place a golden prosthetic. 

A man in the front of the crowd stood, his hands in fists. 

“Sister fucking Kingslayer!” he yelled before he spat on his face. The Kingslayer stopped for a moment, closing his eyes for a moment before he turned to look at the man who was raging at him, wiping the liquid from his face and flicking it back at him before he started his walk back towards the front of the hall. 

When he was finally standing before Daenerys Greyworm and the unsullied moved back to their spots, leaving him alone and abandoned. It infuriated her how he held his head high, how he stood tall and proud, how he didn’t look afraid, how he didn’t cower, how a hint of a smile was pulling at his lips as if this was all some great joke to him.

_ We will see if he’s still smiling when his blood is boiling in his armor... _

There was a tension and unease in the air. Even the Northmen knew to stay silent in this long-coming moment. She was glad though that there seemed to be as much love lost between the Kingslayer and the North as there was between them and Daenerys. And at least none had actually spat at her when she walked in.

Finally, years in the making, Daenerys spoke to him. “When I was a child, my brother told me a story.” Her voice was barely controlled rage, letting him know just how close she was to ordering the same fate as her father. “About the man who murdered our father. Who stabbed him in the back and slit his throat. Who sat on the iron throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor.” He said nothing, just kept his eyes locked on her. No guilt, no shame, no nothing danced across his features. “He told me other stories as well. About  **_all_ ** the things we would do to this man once we took back the Seven Kingdoms and had him in our grasp.”

His smile turned sour then, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. It took everything in her not to call her dragons right then. A deep breath, and then “your sister pledged to send her armies North.”

“She did.”

The voice matched the picture she had of him; arrogant and Highborn. 

“I don’t see an army. I see one man,” she smirked. “With  **_one_ ** hand. It appears your sister lied to me.”

His eyes drifted to Tyrion for a moment and then back to the queen. “She lied to me as well,” he argued. If he had any feelings, Daenerys would have thought he sounded sad. “She never had any intention of sending her armies North.” Another deep breath and then, “she has Euron Greyjoy’s fleet, and 20,000 fresh troops from the Golden Company. Even if we defeat the dead, she has more than enough men to destroy the survivors.”

“ **_We_ ** ?” Daenerys challenged.

He hardened his gaze. “I promised to fight for the living. I intend to keep that promise.”

The two of them kept each other's eyes locked on each other, hating each other, until Tyrion stood from his chair. 

“Your Grace, I know my brother-.”

“Like you knew your sister?” she barked. His sins and crimes were not forgotten, even when she was facing a monster.

Tyrion never looked as small or sad or desperate as he did right then. “He came here alone, knowing full well how’d he be received. Why would he do that if he weren’t telling the truth!”

“Perhaps he trusts his little brother to defend him,” she challenged before turning back to the Kingslayer. “Right up to the moment he slit my throat.”

Another beat and then a voice she didn’t expect rang up. “You’re right, we can’t trust him.”

Daenerys turned towards Sansa who was glaring daggers at the man standing in the hall. “He attacked my father in the streets of King’s Landing ,” Sansa said, her voice shaking in anger. “He  **_murdered_ ** Jory Cassel.” Daenerys wasn’t sure who this Jory or was, but judging by the muttering and the loud cry of, ‘hang the bastard!’ from the audience she gathered he had been well liked man. “He tried to destroy my House and my Family the same as he did yours.”

“Do you want me to apologize?!” he demanded, challenging the red head. “I won’t. Your mother ordered my brother's kidnapping.”

“Because you sent a hired man in to kill  **_my_ ** brother, a crippled boy!”

“I had nothing to do with that assassin! Trust me, Stark, I don’t need to hire anyone to do my killings for me! We were at war! Everything I did, I did for my house and my family I would do it all again!”

“The things we do for love,” said Bran softly, 

Daenerys turned towards the young boy, furrowing her brow at the cryptic statement. When she turned back to the Kingslayer she didn’t understand why she saw terror in his bright green eyes, any semblance of arrogance washed away in a river of fear. 

“So why have you abandoned your House and your family? If it’s so important to you, why are you here in the North and not with your sister?”

He finally looked back at her, much more subdued. “Because this goes beyond loyalty,” he said. He turned his gaze towards someone in the gallery and Daenerys followed his eyes, landing on Brienne. It stunned Daenerys how soft a monster's voice could be. “This is about survival.”

The blonde woman swallowed hard before she stood from her spot and made her way to the front of the hall standing tall and proud besides the Kingslayer. “You don’t know me well, Your Grace,” she began. “But I know Ser Jaime. He  **_is_ ** a man of honor. I was his captor once, but when we were both taken prisoner and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me.” Her eyes narrowed slightly at the queen. “And lost his hand because of it. But that did not stop him from coming back after he was freed and jumping into a bearpit one handed to save me.” 

She turned towards Sansa then. “Without him, My Lady, you would not be alive. He armed me, armored me, and sent me to find you and bring you home… Because he swore an oath to your mother.”

That explained the sword at least.

Sansa glanced down at the table for a long moment before she looked back at her sworn sword. “You vouch for him?”

“I do.”

The Kingslayer glanced down at the floor, a soft smile tugging at his lips but he said nothing. Sansa’s voice shook slightly, as though she was unable to contemplate Brienne siding with the enemy. Daenerys thought about what would happen if Missandei ever came to his defense and pleaded for his life. She would have wept until her tears drowned her. “You would fight beside him?”

Brienne pulled herself up to her full height. “I would,” she said, as though she could think of no greater honor. The look the Kingslayer gave Brienne then was an expression she thought a man like him incapable of making. Soft and sweet, in awe and unbelieving that someone like her could exist. 

It was the same way Daenerys looked at Jon the first time she saw his scars.

Sansa nodded slowly. “I trust you with my life… If you trust him with yours, we should let him stay.”

A rabble of enraged Northmen broke out but not near as much as it would have been if Daenerys had been the one give him a pardon. Anger at Sansa bubbled over. She trusted the man who tried to kill her father, who she thinks tried to kill her brother, but she welcomed him into his home, all on the word of a southern woman with a Lannister sword?

“So you would have us forgive the murder of his king, his forsaking of holy vows because he treated you kindly once?” Daenerys challenged.

“I swear to you, Your Grace,” Brienne said. “He is not the man he was.”

“But the man he  **_was_ ** is a murderer. A king slayer, an oath breaker, a man without honor who killed his king after he swore to protect him.”

Brienne shifted uncomfortably, as though the words physically pained her. She took a deep breath and stood tall once more, looking at Daenerys with the most beautiful blue eyes she’d ever seen.

“He was pardoned for his crimes,” the plain faced woman reminded her. “By his Grace Robert Baratheon.”

“A usurper with no right to pardon anyone.”

“But am anointed king nonetheless. Your Grace, by the laws of Westeros-.”

“I am your Queen!” she yelled. “I tell you what the laws of Westeros are!”

Sansa’s eyes flashed with murder as she whipped her head around to glare at the queen. Brienne blushed a violet red and lowered her gaze to the floor, and the Kingslayer’s expression filled with a searing hate. He was more angered that Daenerys raised her voice at Brienne then all the insults she threw at him.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Brienne muttered, soft and shy and with a note of fear to sour it. “I meant no offense.”

“Yet you have given it all the same.” She turned back to the Kingslayer, fire and blood filling her every word. “Take him to his cell. In the dungeons, not the tower.” Daenerys looked back towards Brienne, cutting her off before she could speak. “If anyone has any objections they are free to join him.” 

Brienne and the Kingslayer looked at eachother and he gave a barely noticeable shake of his head. She turned towards Sansa, and for the first time since Daenerys stepped foot in Winterfell she looked genuinely frightened at the prospect of losing her protector. It was that look that made Brienne bow her head and step back wordlessly, allowing the unsullied to lead him from the room.

“Lord Tyrion, I need to speak to you in my chambers  **_now_ ** ,” Daenerys said as she watched the Kingslayer retreating back, not waiting for an answer before she stood from her chair.

This time, not a single person hesitated to follow protocol...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just a little note, we’re gonna go on and pretend that Tyrion doesn’t know about the wildfire and therefore didn’t tell Daenerys about it, because the wildfire secret is just that; a secret only Jaime and Brienne share. What makes it so special and romantic is Brienne was the ONLY one, including his own family, including his sister/lover, that Jaime trusted enough to tell because he knows she would never use it in war or against enemies and knows she would keep the secret so no one else could use it like Cersei did. So right now Dany thinks the same as everyone else, that Jaime just murdered the king because he’s a dishonorable little asshole and Daenerys ‘I will drink the wine of vengeance from the skull of the usurper’ Targaryen acted accordingly.


	7. Chapter 7

Daenerys eyed the flames in the fireplace, it’s beautiful melody of reds and oranges and black caressing each other like lovers as she waited for Tyrion. She stared deep into the flames, breath slow and even. Everything around her seemed to fade away as she watched the flames dance, her thoughts, her voice, the room, the war, the north… Nothing in this world existed but the caressing flames. She leaned closer, as though hypnotized, hand in her breast and lips parted.

A nameless face stared back from the flames, with long silky dark hair and violet eyes so dark they were almost black. Daenerys stretched out her hand towards the beautiful face with trembling fingers, the lick of the flames on her flesh beautiful and warm. 

_Mysha_ , a voice seemed to call out to her. _Mysha… Mother… Mother..._

“Forgive me, Khaleesi.”

Daenerys jumped back from the flames, biting her tongue to keep from crying out as she turned quickly to the mortal voice in the room with her. Jorah stood there in the doorway. Once she caught her breath and her heart had slowed to a rather reasonable speed she smiled at the old bear.

“Have you done something to offend me?” she asked amused.

“Many things.”

“Long ago and long forgiven.”

“Yes… But you did forgive. Despite my failures. When I heard you'd named Tyrion your Hand, it broke my heart.”

“When I named him Hand, I didn't know if I'd ever see you again,” she explained. It caused her grief and nightmares for weeks thinking about Jorah, skin grey-stone and rotted, mind gone… She prayed and wept every night for him to return to her alive and safe like he had, but she had to move on, she had lingered far too long in Meereen.

“You made the right choice.”

Daenerys gave him a soft sad smile. “I wasn't under the impression you liked him very much.”

“I didn't. His mouth hardly stopped moving between Volantis and Meereen,” he chuckled. “It was all I could do not to throw him in the sea. But the mind behind all those words-.”

Her face hardened. “He's made mistakes. **_Serious_ ** mistakes.”

“As have we all. I sold men into slavery, I did not tell you about Robert’s assassins. But I grew, and you forgave my crimes. Tyrion owns his mistakes and learns from them.”

“You're advising me to forgive the man who stole your position?”

“I am. And one other suggestion, if you'll allow me…”

“What?”

“Do not make the Starks your enemy. As loyal as your men are to you, the North is to them.”

“I do not **_want_ ** the Starks as my enemy! My war is with Cersei, I didn’t even know they declared independence until Jon was introduced as a king. I thought they would be my biggest ally against the Lannisters,” she muttered, rolling her eyes at her nativity.

“Grudges against your family run deeper and older then their recent dislike of the Lannisters, save perhaps for the Kingslayers crimes. Murdering the Lord of the North, murdering his heir, calling for Ned Starks head… All crimes committed by your father. And then when they were finally free of the yolk of the South you appear to come in and force them back into the fold.”

“Jon Snow brought them back into the Southern fold!” she argued. “I was willing to fight this war with them as allies rather than subjects, he kneeled when he had no cause other than his belief in me!”

“I understand, Khaleesi, but they do not see it that way,” he said softly and urging her to calm. “The Northmen are a proud stubborn peopls but they are loyal to the Starks. You need to get on Lady Sansa’s good side, make her an ally rather than an enemy.”

“Lady Sansa would like to see me devoured by dogs,” Daenerys said. “She hates me.”

“She does but if you can get her to trust you, she will order the compliance and respect of the Northmen and they will follow her. Reluctantly, but they will follow nonetheless.”

“Jon ordered the same and nothing changed.”

“Right now they believed Jon betrayed them by bending the knee, and their love for him hangs by a thread. But trueborn daughter of Ned Stark who rode in with an army to save them from the Bolton’s? They will listen to her if you get her to listen to you.”

“And how do I do that?” 

“You say you only want respect rather than friendship. Perhaps try for the latter first and the former will follow.”

“I tried that,” she barked. “Last night I tried to make peace and I got shouted at and disrespected for my efforts. If someone had overheard-.”

“So try again. Try until she bends or until you have no other option but to make good on your threats. But if you choose that road, know that you will never have the North. Your kingdom will be plagued for civil war for your whole reign.”

“You’re telling me my only options is to get her to like me, an impossible task, or execute the sister of the man I love and plunge my country into civil war for a hundred years?”

His smile was meant to be comforting but it just made her feel even more hopeless. “No one ever said there were easy choices in ruling, Khaleesi.”

A knock on the door turned their attention away from each other. Tyrion was standing in the doorway and looking as though it was taking everything in him not to become sick on her floor.

“I’ll take my leave, Khaleesi,” Jorah said with a low bow before he walked out, slapping the shorter man on the shoulder. The dwarf forced his feet forward, each step a challenge for him until he was standing in front of her desk, hands clasped behind his back in a submissive show as respect.

The silence in the queens chambers was as loud as anything she ever heard. Tyrion stood before her, fear and worry dancing in the pale green of his eyes but whether that was for his brother or his own awaited fate she wasn’t sure. Daenerys stared at the dwarf from her chair until he shifted uncomfortably under her heated gaze.

“Either you knew Cerdei was lying,” she finally began sharply. “And you allowed me to believe otherwise or you didn’t know and you’re an idiot. So which is it; a traitor or a fool?”

“A fool,” he said quickly, voice trembling. “I was a fool.”

“And not for the first time,” she spat. “Your decisions have brought me nothing but losses. You cost me Dorne and the Iron Islands, you cost me the Reach, you nearly cost me Meereen, and now you may have cost me the throne.”

“I misjudged my sister. I underestimated the rules she was willing to play by.

“That is why I hired you as my adviser!” Daenerys shouted. “Because I thought you knew Cersei well enough to win against her in the game! But she has outwitted you at every turn! If you can’t help me win against her then why do I need you as my Hand? Why do I need you at all? Tell me,” she demanded when he answered with nothing but silence, expecting a dismissal rather than a demand for answers. “Why should you be allowed to wear that pin on your breast? Because I for one cannot think of a single reason.”

He licked his lips, mouth opening and closing again and again as though he were a fish out of water rather than a man. “I… Your Grace, I...” Tyrion closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to gather his thoughts as best and as quick as he could. “I know I’ve cost you much,” he said, slowly, choosing each deliberate word carefully. “But I can still help you take the throne. I am tired of kings who are mad or drunk or cruel or spineless. You listen to your council even when you don’t like what they are saying, and you are harsh but fair in your punishments. You had love and fear and respect in Essos, the three things a ruler needs to properly lead. Here you have only fear. I can make them respect you, I can make them love you. I know the Lords of Westeros, I know how to play the game that you refuse to play, I’m **_GOOD_ ** at the game. All I want is to serve you, Your Grace. Please.”

Daenerys’ violet eyes searched over his scared face, looking for any sign of doubt or disloyalty. “I believe you,” she said firmly when she found none. “But you still cost me my allies and you risked the throne because you couldn’t foresee Cersei’s plans. You’ve made far too many mistakes, Tyrion.” Daenerys held out her hand. “Mistakes that I cannot ignore.”

Tears filled his eyes and he closed them tight, fighting to keep them from falling. With a trembling hand he reached up and took off his pin, laying it in her palm. Her fingers closed around the cool metal. “I believe you want what’s best for the realm,” she said softly, and he nodded, still not opening his eyes. “And I believe you when you say all you want is to serve me. I will keep you on as one of my high advisers and perhaps if you can make up for your mistakes, if you can prove to me you’re worthy of the honor, you may earn this back.”

He opened his eyes, and a flash of hope shined bright in his mess of grief. “I understand, Your Grace. Thank you.” 

“I want you to wear this pin again, Tyrion. Show me that my faith in you is not misplaced.” She put the golden pin in her top drawer and folded her hands on the desk. “You’re dismissed.”

Tyrion bowed and turned to leave, but when he reached the door he faltered and turned back to face her. “Actually, your Grace, might I have another word with you?”

“About what?”

“My brother.” Her expression must have turned deadly because Tyrion had to brace himself. “Jaime is the reason I am standing here. He freed me the morning I was to be executed and crushed any chance of Cersei’s greatest dream of having me dead at her hand coming true. He also denied Cersei her second greatest wish of having Sansa’s head resting on a spike besides her fathers when he sent Lady Brienne to bring her home safely. When he is away from my sister his mind clears, and his honor is restored. Let him fight for you.”

“Honorable men do not stab their kings in the back,” she spoke sharply.

“No but honorable men do come to a place where they’re hated and loathed by the entirety of the country apart from two individuals all to keep a promise he made to probably the only person on this earth that he actually cares about what she thinks of him.”

Daenerys remembered the fearful look in the maid of Tarth's eyes she ordered him brought to the dungeon, the hate and rage exuding off the Kingslayer when the queen shouted at Brienne. “Is there something going on between the Kingslayer and the Lady Brienne that I should know about?”

“All I know is when my brother talked to me after he returned to King’s Landing and when we spoke after the Dragon Pit he was very... affectionate towards her,” he settled on.

Daenerys doubted the Kingslayer was capable of any emotion even resembling affection but she said nothing to counter the opinion of his brother. “Does Cersei and Lady Brienne have an allyship?” 

That was all Daenerys needed. A woman who was loyal and friendly to all three of her enemies. 

“Absolutely not. This I **_do_ **know about my sister, Your Grace; her envy is as green as her eyes.” 

The Queen pictured Cersei, beautiful stunning Cersei who at one point nearly every man in the kingdoms wanted to lay with, sick with jealousy over the…. unconventional looking warrior, and it made her chuckle. 

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys said when she realized he was done making his argument. “I promise to keep your council in mind when I make a decision regarding your brother.”

Tyrion looked less than enthused about the dismissal, but rather than push his luck further he just gave her a bow and left. 

When she was finally alone she turned back to the flames but the face was long gone, the only sounds coming from the fireplace the familiar spitting and hissing of logs.

Daenerys sat in her chambers for a long while. Her own thoughts of revenge, her brother's stories, Tyrion’s pleas and Brienne's begging all of them swirling together, all of them saying something different and showing her different paths she and the Kingslayer could walk down, some leading to mercy but many leading to his death. 

She would allow Tryion to take the Kingslayer’s body back to their childhood home and and be buried in the Casterly Rock tombs with all the former Lords of the Rock and Kings of the West and the rest of their ancestors, a mercy the usurper did not afford her father. That was more than the Kingslayer deserved but she doubted Tyrion would see it that way. 

The screams as her dragons burned him would be the sweetest thing she ever heard. No matter how arrogant, no matter how smug, she would have his screams and his life in the end, the same thing she and Viserys dreamed about for years. But in her mind he was seventeen years old, sword stained red, arrogant as he sat on the throne her ancestors built in the white armor he earned when he swore to protect the king, green eyes hateful and inhuman, hated by everyone and she would be cheered as the smell of his flesh wafted around the waiting group. She never pictured a man with a family who loved him enough to argue on his behalf, or a woman who would fight for him knowing it would upset the woman she swore to serve. 

Him saving a maiden from rape and losing his sword hand in the process, leaping into a bear pit to rescue his captor, going against his lover and sister to free an innocent man and then again to keep an oath to a dead enemy, who showed up in a place where he was hated just to keep a promise. That was not at all what she pictured him to be. That was not the man she imagined she would be facing when she crossed the narrow sea.

Daenerys tried to see the paths more clearly and tried to untangle them all but the more she thought about it the more they tied more knots around each other. Not knowing what else to do she rose from her seat and made her way down to the dungeons, Greyworm guarding her every step of the way, the Kingslayer’s confiscated sword and scabbard in hand.

The Winterfell dungeons were similar to many she saw in her travels. Iron bars, heavy oak doors, flickering flames from the torches lining the stone walls and a stale stench of death and sick and rust.

They were empty now with only one person occupying them apart from the Kingslayer. The man in the cells tried to steal his neighbors grains stores; a serious crime with a steep penalty during a northern winter. The Kingslayer was at the end of the long hall, his cell directly across from a torch so he was granted more light then most. 

When Daenerys stared at him through the iron bars she didn’t see the broken man she thought she would. Instead he was sitting against the wall, one leg stretched out and the other pulled to his chest, his arm draped across it lazily, his ankle shackled to the wall. He looked to be deep in thought about something but it was almost peaceful. He could not have cared less about her threats, she wagered and that angered her. Her father was dead, her brother's wife and two of his children murdered and brutalized when he was supposed to protect him.

He probably would have joined in on the fun had Ned Stark not caught up to him. 

She nodded to the gailor to open the doors and it infuriated her that he didn’t so much as turn his head to look at her, as though she was a minor inconvenience he barely noticed rather than the woman who held his life in her hand.

“I’d offer you a seat, Your Grace, but I’m afraid I’m quite lacking those at the moment.” He finally turned his head to look at her. The torch light reflected in his bright green eyes made it look like wildfire. “Of course you could come take a seat in my lap but I must warn you you’re a bit too short for my tastes so it’ll take a while to see if I’m up for it.”

“Let me kill this man for you, my queen,” Grey Worm spat in the common tongue. “He has no respect!”

“What's stopping you?” he asked with a shrug. “You’re well armed, except for rather important parts, I have no steel… Come.” He thumped his heart. “Right here. A sword to the chest, I’ll bleed out in seconds. Now if you wanted to make it **_truly_ ** painful a dagger to the stomach… Let my acids eat away at me slowly, there’d be pain for days.”

Daenerys glared at him. “You want us to believe you do not fear death.”

“I do not. I never have, it will happen one way or the other. I might as well make someone happy with my demise.”

“So if I were to drag you out to the Meadows, and let my dragons devour you,” she said, voice shaking with rage. “You would be content? A single word and you would know nothing but pain. Your last smell would be your own burning flesh, your last thought would be of the searing heat licking at your skin, your last sight before your eyes melt from from your head would be the red of the flames. It would make for such a pretty sight. If you’re in such a hurry to hasten your death then stand up and follow me to the courtyard. My dragons haven’t eaten in days, I’m sure they’d be hungry for the taste of lion again, they enjoyed it so much on the Gold Road.”

That was a lie. The last man her dragons ate were in the catacombs of Meereen when she was forced to make an example of one of the Great Masters. She read though that the Maesters said once dragons develop a taste for man, that is what they would crave and they would consume humans without impunity. Daenerys would not risk an innocent being eaten alive just to add an extra punishment to her enemies after they were already dead.

But the Kingslayer didn’t need to know that.

He kept his expression cool but his eyes shouted the truth. He may not have feared death, but he did fear a death by fire. The Kingslayer would have welcomed steel or arrow piercing him, but the thought of burning alive terrified him.

Maybe if she did kill him she wouldn’t return his remains to Casterly Rock. Perhaps she would burn the remains as well until he was nothing but ash. Tormented and burning even in death.

“Why have you come here?” His voice was no longer arrogant but angry, and it made Daenerys smile. “If it’s solely to float over my eventual demise then just get it over with and prevent me the torture of having to listen to you any longer.”

“I’ve come because you owe me answers, Kingslayer.”

“I owe you nothing.”

“You owe my father! You owe Elia and Aegon and Rhaenys!” He quickly looked away at the mention of Rhaegar's family. Guilt replaced his rage and he bowed his head as it consumed him. “Tell me why you forsook your vows, why you let them die, why you let your father murder two babes in the crib!”

“I didn’t let him!” the Kingslayer barked but he still wouldn’t look at her. “There was no time to get to the Holdfast, I didn’t… I didn’t realize what had happened until afterwards.”

“A lie.”

“The truth.” The Kingslayer looked up from the floor. There was no arrogance, only anger. “Rhaegar demanded three of the Kingsguard follow him and Aerys ordered the other three to Dragonstone with your other brother, I was the only one in the keep. I was left alone, seven and ten, the most inexperienced knight to protect the king and the prince's family.” 

Daenerys’ face fell. She heard of the battle at the Tower of Joy, the last stand in the war. She never understood why the Kingsguard were there instead of on the battlefield or back in King’s Landing, why they were not protecting the prince on the trident or his family, she had merely thought them cowards before but now… There would only be one reason for Rhaegar to demand the best of the Kingsguard defend some worthless tower in the middle of nowhere, a tower where Ned Stark made his last stand alone, and then ordered it burned to the ground afterwards.

By trying to protect Lyanna and Jon, Rhaegar unwittingly condemned his other family to a violent death.

“I never thought my father would have given the order,” the Kingslayer muttered, drawing her from his thoughts. He was looking up at her now, begging for her to believe him. “I didn’t know Maegar’s had been breached,” he said in almost a soft whisper, the pain of the memories crushing him. “I would have cut down the Mountain myself to protect them all, I swear it, but by the time I realized what was happening... I couldn’t be in two places at once. I had to make an impossible choice.”

“Yes an _impossible choice,”_ Daenerys snarled. “Murder the king or protect a woman and her two children, I can see why that might be a difficult decision for you. Even now I can see you don’t even grieve or regret your choices to break your vow.”

The Kingslayer glared at her. “Yes, I murdered the king, and what a noble king he was!” he spat. “Burning men alive, threatening to burn the realm down, beating your brother, abusing your mother, such a gallant man!”

Her eyes went wide with rage. “Do not ever talk about my mother!” she hissed. 

“What?” The Kingslayer sneered. “You never heard the stories? Whenever King Aerys, the Second of his Name and Protector of the Realm, would burn a man he would go and pay the queen a visit. I BEGGED to be allowed to save her,” he growled, his remaining hand curling into a fist. “I BEGGED my sworn brothers to let me take Rhaella away from him! But you want to know what Barristan Selmy told me when I reminded him it was our job to protect her as well as the king when I heard her weeping and begging and telling the great king Aerys that he was hurting her? Do you want to know what knight you so openly welcomed into your service told me? He said it wasn’t our job to protect her from him. The next day she left for Dragonstone looking as though she had been savaged by wild beasts and nine months to the day she died giving you life.”

Daenerys didn’t even realize tears were falling until one of them fell upon her boot. She quickly wiped them with the back of her hand. 

Ser Jaime did not give her the courtesy of looking away.

“So yes,” he continued after he took a breath to calm himself down. “I killed him, and I would kill him a thousand times over, even knowing it meant Rhaegar's family. There are other things you don’t know, Targaryen, things I would rather take my own life then trust the daughter of Aerys with. But do not sit here and chastise me for not mourning your father. I would piss on his ashes a thousand times over with a smile and never once feel guilt.”

Daenerys cleared her throat. “Guard,” she called, voice thick with tears. She turned back to the green eyed man. “Unchain him.”

Jaime said nothing as the guard walked in and released him from his fetters. “You will make your stand with us against the dead, Lannister,” she said as he stood. “You will keep the promise that brought you North.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Jaime looked at Grey Worm and raised his brow. The unsullied guard slammed the sword he took from him against his chest, glaring at the man who caused his queen so much pain and he wasted no time in buckling the scabbard around his waist. His bow was quick, a quick jerk of his head and then he was gone, footsteps echoing in the great stone passageway.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Honorable Knight**

Jaime was glad he didn’t hear footsteps following him as he made his way up the dungeon steps. He needed a moment alone, to drown out the memories of Aerys and Rhaella and all the rest. He wish he could turn to drink like his sister but he saw what wine and ale did first to Robert and then to Cersei and he wanted no part of it. 

He sighed as he reached the landing, stretching his arms towards the sky. It hadn’t been long in the dungeons, only an hour or so, but it was amazing how cramped a room so small could make you feel in such a short amount of time. He heard Daenerys and Grey Worm coming up behind him and not wanting to relive any other fun fond memories of the Mad King or his exploits he headed out the first door he saw which led to a long passageway. 

Not knowing where else to go or what else to do he followed it, trying to remember the layout of the castle from his first visit to the North and failing miserably. He hadn’t seen this part of the keep during his time here and he was hopelessly lost. Eventually though he found an outer door which led to some small forgotten corner of the castle and he breathed a sigh of relief as he started to follow the walls. Eventually he would reach the main courtyard which would lead to the great hall and from there he could probably find his way to an empty chamber. It had been a long journey North and he was tired and weary and all he wanted was to rest.

As Jaime followed the walls of the keep he came across a long clear path that led to a forest, one set of coming and going footsteps and what looked like wheel tracks in the snow. Guilt gnawed at his heart and twisted his stomach into knots as he looked down the long white path. 

He owed it to the boy to speak to him, no matter how uncomfortable it would be. He more than owed it to him, in fact. So, with a deep breath and wrapping his thread-bare cloak around him tighter, Jaime made his way to the woods.

The silence of the Godswood was eerie and strange, and he misliked it greatly. He shuddered as a howling wind blew, and a presence that was screaming at him to leave was making itself well known, but he pushed forward until he came across a large white heart tree in the center of the wood and Brandon Stark sitting before it. 

He took a deep breath before he made his way up to him. “I am so sorry,” he said softly, not so that no one might overhear but because he knew this was a sacred place. “For what I did to you.” 

His face was unflinching, unmoving, clear of any emotions. “You weren’t sorry then.” Bran said in a calm flat voice before turning to face him. Jaime swallowed hard but he willed himself to meet his eyes. “You were protecting your family.”

He shook his head as he walked in front of him, standing between the boy and the heart tree. It felt as though he had an enemy at his back waiting with a dagger. “I’m not that person anymore,” Jaime said desperately. Whether that was for Bran’s benefit or his own he wasn’t sure.

“You still would be if you hadn’t pushed me out of that window. And I would still be Brandon Stark.”

He furrowed his brow. “You’re not?”

“No,” he said softly. “I’m something else now.”

“You’re not angry with me?”

“I’m not angry with anyone,” 

Jaime almost rolled his eyes but he managed to stop himself. None of this made any sense. He told his father the name of the man who crippled him the moment he returned to King’s Landing, he was still angry at the Northmen who took his hand. How a child could forgive him for taking away his legs?

“Why didn’t you tell them?” he demanded half in shock at the way this was unfolding. 

A half glimmer of a smile was at his lips. “You won’t be able to help us in this fight if I let them murder you first…”

That made sense. He was biding his time, using his skills, holding it over until the war was finished. Jaime nodded slowly. “And what about afterwards?” he asked in a soft voice. If he told, he would face the consequences. He would accept the punishment he earned with his head held high knowing he spent his last few days keeping his promise to her.

Bran simply stared, any hint of a smile gone. “How do you know there is an afterwards?”

A shudder of fear rippled through Jaime, and the presence screamed at him louder. 

“She’s quite beautiful,” the young wolf said, somehow seeing past Jaime and past the Godswood, in another time and place entirely. “Far more beautiful than any other.”

“She is,” Jaime said, thinking of his sister. He missed the flick of an amused smile on Bran’s lips. Without another word he turned her attention back to the Heart Tree, effectively ending the conversation. He bowed his head and headed back to the keep, glad to put the unfriendly force behind him.

Lannisters did not belong in the Godswood, the Old Gods apparently decided, and Jaime was more than happy to leave them to their trees.

He made his way back to the castle and finally found the main training yard. Jaime ignored the sharp glares and angry mutters as he walked by the northmen setting up for the upcoming battle. He was well used to being hated, these people were of no consequence to him. As he headed towards the main door he saw his brother walking across the yard and he smiled, choosing to follow him instead until he caught his eye.

“Please tell me Daenerys knows you’re out and about,” Tyrion said as they approached one another, “and you didn’t break out of the dungeon.” Jaime chuckled and Tyrions smile grew. “So… here we are.” 

“Yes here we are.”

“The Lannister brothers together again.” A Northman walked by and eyed Jaime and Tyrion sharply before spitting at their feet.  _ Why do they all like to spit? _ “And the masses rejoice…” the dwarf drawled, voice steeped in irony.

The two of them began to walk towards the rampart, eager to get away from the unfriendly faces. “How do they feel about their new queen?”

“She’s your new queen too,” he said quickly. Jaime said nothing. She did just release him from imprisonment after all but even still, she carried Aerys blood, and he started out sane as well. “They remember what happened the last time a Stark and Targaryen met. But they’ll come around. They’ll see she’s different.”

“And she is? Different?”

“She let you live,” Tyrion reminded him. “And yes, she is.”

“You sure about her?”

“I am.”

Jaime quirked his brow and nodded to the spot where his pin once was. “She didn’t seem sure about you…” 

“It’s hard to blame her. I made a mistake common to clever people, I underestimated my opponent.” Tyrion gnawed at his lip. “Cersei told me the pregnancy changed her. She said it was a chance for you both to start over, and I believed her.” 

Jaime bowed his head, another guilt eating at him. He didn’t want to leave her pregnant and alone but he had a promise to keep, and he was tired of being a part of her schemes. 

Tyrion turned on the steps to face him. “Was she lying about the baby?”

Jaime shook his head. “No. That part is real. She’s always been good at using the truth to tell lies… But don’t be too hard on yourself.” They began walking up the steps. “She’s fooled me more than anyone.” Tyrion turned and raised a brow, a humorless smile. “What?”

“She never fooled you,” he said. “You always knew exactly what she was, and you loved her anyway.”

“No,” he said softly. “I didn’t. I thought that I was the Warrior and Cersei was the Maid, but all the time she was the Stranger, hiding her true face from my gaze.”

Tyrion didn’t seem to believe him but said nothing more. Jaime followed him up the stairs and the two of them gazed out over the courtyard. “So...” his brother began dryly and rather unamused. “We’re going to die. At Winterfell. Not the death I would have chosen… I always pictured myself dying in my own bed, at the age of 80, with a bellyful of wine-.”

“‘And a girl's mouth around my cock’,” Jaime finished for him with a chuckle. Tyrion glanced up at him and his lips flickered into a smile before he turned his attention back to the men. 

“At least Cersei won’t be able to murder me,” ve mused. He started speaking again but on the other side of the wall he heard a familiar voice, and anything else Tyrion had to say went in one ear and out the other as he went to watch her. Brienne was watching a group of men drill, dressed in the armor he gave her and her hand on the hilt of her sword. 

From up here at a distance she almost could have been called pretty…

“There’s a set of stairs leading down just a few feet to the left,” Tyrion said suddenly beside him sounding rather amused. Jaime offered nothing in response and instead just took the aforementioned stairs down to the clearing, keeping his eyes on the woman who stood up for him not just in front of Sansa but the dragon queen as well. She was watching Podrick spar with a smile full of pride, but as soon as he stepped up beside her, her smile fell.

“Ser Jaime,” she greeted as formally as she always did.

“Lady Brienne,” he said with amusement and a nod of his head. He thought they were well past formal titles but she insisted on the decorum. 

She swallowed hard and turned her attention back to her squire, and Jaime nodded approvingly as he watched him disarm his opponent. “He’s good,” he mused.

“He’s alright,” Brienne said, walking away with Jaime following behind. “He still has a lot to learn.”

“I’m sure you’ll teach him.” She glanced back at him and then quickly turned back around. “I’m told you’re commanding the left flank.”

“Lady Sansa volunteered me,” she said stiffly. “I haven’t… It’s good ground, I’ve been told,” she muttered, sounding unsure of her words. “The rise should give us some advantage. If we can keep a right formation we should be able to beat them back.”

It was someone else’s words, Jaime knew and his anger threatened to overwhelm him. Brienne was a fighter, a swordsman, the best he had ever seen apart from him but she was not a soldier. She had never been in a war, why would they give her a command in her first ever battle? Whenever assigned her that role was setting her and the men up for failure…

The thought of Brienne laying dead on the battlefield, big blue eyes open and unseeing as the dead ravaged all because of someone else’s choice struck him with a fear he never knew could exist but he would not show it to her. If she was going to lead a company of soldiers she had to be confident, and he would not be the one to destroy that.

He looked out over the hills and nodded. “Yes I think you’re right.”

She whipped back around to face him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What are you doing?” she demanded and Jaime blinked.

“... What?”

“I think you know!”

He opened his mouth and closed it again. “I truly don’t.”

“We have never had a conversation last this long without you insulting me, not once!” she barked, and Jaime glared right back. They had moved well past that stage and she knew it.

“You want me to insult you?!”

“No!”

“Good!”

They both turned away from each other again and Jaime took a deep breath, trying his best to settle his nerves. He hated fighting with her. “I came to Winterfell because…”

_ Because I made you a promise. _

_ Because I want to make you proud. _

_ Because I want you to think I’m a good man. _

_ Because I want to prove you’re right to have faith in me. _

_ Because I want to be with you here at the end of all things fighting for an honorable cause. _

But when she looked at him with those big blue eyes, sapphire blue eyes, he faulted and just allowed the sentence to trail off. His gaze softened and he leaned in closer. “I’m not the fighter I used to be,” he said gently. “But I’d be honored to serve under your command… If you’ll have me.”

Brienne swallowed hard but they didn’t take their eyes from another for a long while. A warmth spread throughout his chest as he looked at her and she looked at him, and he knew that she was feeling the same.

“I have to get back,” she said as soft as a breeze with a note of fear souring her words. Jaime just nodded and stepped back, allowing her to walk past him and not for the first time watched as she walked away and wishing he could follow.

**The Mad Lioness**

_ Thick crimson fog threatened to swallow Cersei. It was cold, and left a burn where it touched her pale skin. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, protecting the cub inside her from the Danvers of the outside world. _

_ A voice rose from the deadly fog, screeching and old, a dead voice. A voice Cersei had heard in a thousand nightmares. “Queen you shall be,” it hissed at her. “Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.” _

_ The thick black fog turned a deep and wonderful and beautiful shade of blue, a sapphire blue, and it made Cersei weep even as it consumed her. Jaime could never defeat this fog. He would not want to destroy its beauty, even if it was to save his twin. _

_ “Six-and-ten for him, and three for you,” Maggie’s voice surrounded her. She winced as the thickening blue fog turned golden and choked her with the stench of rot. “Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds.” _

_ “You’re wrong!” she screamed at the voice, gasping as the fog climbed higher and higher. “I carry a prince! I will not let you take him from me! I WON’T!” _

_ “And when your tears have drowned you,” Maggie whispered, and the fog turned a deadly shade of black, the color of death and night. “The valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.”  _

_ The fog surrounded her fully now. Though it’s thick black smoke came two pale hands racing towards the queen and wrapped themselves around her throat. _

Cersei screamed as she threw herself up out of bed, clawing at her neck so hard her nails drew blood. Somewhere in the distance a door slammed open, and then someone was grabbing her by the shoulders.

“Your Grace!” a man’s voice, real and living, unlike the voice that came from fog, yelled. “Your Grace it was a nightmare! That’s all it was, just a nightmare!”

It took Cersei a moment to realize where she was. She was fine and she was safe in her chambers at the Red Keep surrounded by her guards with Maggy long-decayed in her grave. She took a shaking breath as she ran her hands through her short golden hair, sniffing away her tears. A burning blush rose to her cheeks when she felt a heavy wetness between her legs. The night terror must have made her make water during the night. 

“I’m fine,” she told the guard, doing all she could so her voice did not tremble. She needed him to leave so she could clean herself up. “I’m fine. Leave me to my sleep.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

She waited until the door latched before she threw off the covers and sheets, her hand freezing. 

The queen expected a large wet spot, stinking of piss and yellowing her sheets. But the wetness was not water. It was blood. Thick, wet warm blood so dark that it was near black in the low candlelight. A cramp seized her and she cried out in pain as she clutched at her stomach as the blood continued to pool on her mattress and flow from between her legs. 

Cersei couldn’t breathe. She could barely move. Tears raced down her pale face in droves and when another cramp choked her insides she threw back her head and screamed, as loud and terrible a sound as any the Red Keep ever heard.

The guard came racing in again, stopping short when he saw the blood. Panic overwhelmed him for a moment but eventually he ran out of the room and minutes later Qyburn was there with his Maesters bag.

“JAIME!” Cersei screamed between her sobs as the grey haired man urged her to lay back down on the bed before he kneeled between her legs. “JAIME, WHERE ARE YOU?!  **JAIME PLEASE!!!”**

She didn’t remember much else of that night. Qyburn tipped some kind of liquid into her mouth that tasted like bitter chalk and soon after her eyes grew heavy, her screams and thrashing ceased and she let the darkness took her.

When Cersei awoke she found herself in her old chambers in a fresh nightdress, the blood scrubbed from her thighs, and a thick wad of cotton strips used for a woman’s moon blood between her legs. 

“Take a drink, Your Grace,” Qyburn urged gently from beside her bed and held a goblet of water to her lips. She swallowed greedily until the water was dribbling down her chin and she pushed his weathered hand away.

“I’ve stopped the hemorrhaging,” Qyburn said softly as he wiped her brow with a cool cloth. “You’re going to be fine, Your Grace.”

“Fine?” Her lip trembled. “How can I be fine? How can you say anything will ever be fine again when-...” Cersei trailed off and closed her eyes as even more tears started to fall. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, her empty stomach that no longer held her prince, her cub, her small sweet beautiful boy she would have named Tywin.

This didn’t make sense. She spoke to the midwife just that afternoon, she swore that the babe was fine. He was healthy and growing and strong. The midwife must have lied, she decided. The babe inside of her had been dying and the midwife must have lied to Cersei. 

“I want her death to last years,” the lioness growled low in her throat, angrily wiping away the tears in her eyes. “End Septa Unella’s misery and put the Midwife in her place.”

An eager excitement danced in Qyburn eyes. Cersei had been gracious enough to allow the septa to be shared between the Mountain and the Maester, and quite frankly the half a burned and rotting limb she had left, and the poisoned thickened blood was all but useless for the experiments he had planned. It would be good to get a fresh untainted specimen (although the two empty eye sockets did make a tremendous place to hold his thinner instruments. That would be one of the first things he did to this new woman instead of waiting several months.)

“At once, Your Grace,” he told her, already thinking of ways he might be able to use the body once she passed on. Qyburn grabbed hold of his queen's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. His gray eyes were soft and kind, full of the fatherly love that she had wanted from Tywin more than anything in the world but never received. “I am sorry for what happened.”

“I just… I do not understand it,” she said in a small voice that only Qyburn and Jaime ever heard. “I stayed off my feet, I ate well, I did what all the Maesters and midwives told me to do, the same thing as I did for the other three. My baby should be inside me safe and growing strong.”

“Not even the most learned Maester can explain these things,” Qyburn said. “It is no fault of your own, Your Grace.”

“I know it’s no fault of my own!” Cersei shouted, but he did not flinch from her anger, having grown more than used to it. “But it is somebody’s fault! A prince does not just decide to die in the womb, a queen's body does not just decide to be unfit for carrying children, someone must have done something!” 

The empty cup caught her eye, the rubies and gold of the goblet catching the reflection from the sunlight streaming through the windows. 

Since Joffrey Cersei always poured her own drinks, she always drank from her own personal stock that was guarded day and night, and the taster received the first glass every time. But there had been one time where she hadn’t followed her own set protocol. She had been too enraged at the Stark bastard’s refusal to stay neutral in the war for the crown, at the dragons queen other earthly beauty she was forced to admit was more than her, of seeing her imp brother again after he murdered her father fighting for the Targaryen whore, and seeing Jaime and that great cow sharing looks and words to turn down the sweet Dornish red when Tyrion turned his back on her to pour her a cup of wine.

“Poison,” she breathed, fingers dancing across her stomach. “It was poison…” Cersei looked up at Qyburn. “The day of the dragon pit, Tyrion, he poured me a glass of wine in my chambers…”

“Your Grace that was near a month ago.”

“And slow acting poisons don’t exist?”

“They do,” he said. “But none to my knowledge causes a miscarriage weeks after the fact.”

“He was in Essos. Who knows what kind of strange vile potions they have that he could have picked up? Or it might have been a queer Northern potion given to that ugly beast by the Stark bitch to hand off to the imp, or the dragon queen had her Dothraki savages create something to cripple my heart and take my throne, any of them could have done it but I am telling you Tyrion poisoned me and killed my baby, HE KILLED MY BABY!” she roared, her grief dying and turning to an undying rage. 

Cersei threw off the blankets and stood, ignoring the sharp cramping pains in her stomach. She took Qyburn by the shoulders, her hands trembling and her eyes wide. “I will make them pay,” she snarled, “all of them! Tyrion, the Dragon Queen, Sansa and her despicable creature,  _ all of them _ !” 

Her thoughts drifted to her twin. Her golden haired twin who left her, who made her suffer the loss of their child alone, who betrayed her to fight with her enemies. Jaime had abandoned her. He was a traitor, no better than all the rest, come to bring her and their House to absolute ruin… Jaime would need to pay as well, and because her love for him was greater than all the rest combined, his betrayal stung the sharpest, and she would make sure his punishment would reflect that.

Yes, she decided as her legs finally gave out and the cramps overwhelmed her. Qyburn caught her and laid her back down in the bed. Cersei would destroy them all, she would bring every one of their Houses to ruin, she would make all of them wish they had never been born, just as they cursed her son to suffer. She would destroy their keeps with wildfire and watch the charred skin fall from their bones, just as she had done to the Great Sept. 

Cersei would destroy them all. 

Cersei would burn them all.


	9. Chapter 9

“The moment we can get the last infantryman out onto the field, we should shut the gates,” Daenerys heard Lord Royce comment as she walked into the Winterfell library. “

“Keep them open for as long as you can,” Sansa answered. “There are still people coming in from the countryside, not to mention the Tarth troops should be arriving any minute now.”

They finally noticed Daenerys standing in the entryway and they stood. 

“Lady Sansa, I was hoping we could speak alone,” Daenerys asked with as much gentility as she could muster. Royce looked to Sansa who nodded, granting him leave. The gray-haired Valesman bowed to Daenerys before he walked out, shutting the door behind him.

“I thought you and I were on the verge of agreement before,” she started. “About Ser Jaime. As it were I took your advice and allowed him to fight with us.”

The Stark girl didn’t need to know it was mainly the stirring speech that had made her weep when she was alone that made her choice for her. If it would subdue her to believe it was her declaration that he could be trusted, then she would let her believe as much as she wanted.

“Brienne has been loyal to me, always,” Sansa said, stubbornly firm, already forgiving her for her earlier crimes of defending the man she hated. “I trust her more than anyone.”

Daenerys smiled. “I wish I could have that kind of faith in my advisors.”

“Tyrion is a good man,” she promised. “He was never anything but decent towards me.”

“I didn't ask him to be my Hand simply because he was good. I asked him to be my Hand because he was good, and intelligent, and ruthless when he had to be. He never should have trusted Cersei.”

“You never should have either,” she said with an almost arrogant coolness in her tone. 

The smile on her face faltered and she forced it back, a bit harder than before. “I thought he knew his sister.”

“Families are complicated,” Sansa said.

“Ours certainly have been,” Daenerys agreed as the two women took seats at the table. 

“A sad thing to have in common.”

“We have other things in common. We've both been forced to grow up in an unkind world, we’ve both been hurt by those who promised to protect us, we both know what it means to lead people who aren't inclined to accept a woman's rule.” Daenerys eased her lips into a smug smile. “And we've both done a damn good job of it, from what I can tell.

Sansa smiled back, a rare genuine showing, and Daenerys felt her heart flutter in excitement. Flattery wasn’t typically her style, she loathed it when those in Qarth and the Masters had washed her in so much of it that the sickly-sweetness of it all had made her gag. But if it bring peace to the realm, if she could make it so Jon wouldn’t be forced to choose between her and his family she would flatter the younger woman all the livelong day.

“I can't help but feel we're at odds with one another.” She frowned as though the thought of not getting along was heartbreaking to her. “Why is that? Your brother?”

Sansa shifted uncomfortably in her spot. “He loves you.” A warm light filled the queens chest. “You know that.”

“That bothers you.” 

Sansa just raised her brow as though the reason would be obvious. “Men do stupid things for women. They're easily manipulated.”

She wasn’t wrong in a general sense about men, but Jon was not like other men. He was a Lord, a commander of the Nights Watch, a king.

A Targaryen.

“All my life, I've known one goal: the Iron Throne. Taking it back from the people who destroyed my family, and almost destroyed yours.” The anger in her voice at the Lannisters wasn’t just for show. “My war was against them, I never thought I might find myself in the North except to meet and thank the sons and daughters of the man who tried to save my life.”

She furrowed her brow. “Pardon?”

“Lord Varys told me that your father, Ned Stark, he tried to stop the usurper from sending an assassin after me. He gave up his title of Hand of the King in protest and risked Robert’s friendship and ire, all to try to save me.”

Sansa’s eyes went wide with shock. “He didn’t… I- I never knew…”

A soft smile rose to her lips and Daenerys reached out and took Sansa’s hand in hers. She didn’t pull away. “But things changed. I met Jon. Now I'm here, half a world away, fighting this war alongside him, delaying the war with the south so I could help with the threat to the North first. Tell me, who manipulated whom?”

The red head chuckled and lowered her gaze to the table. “I should have thanked you the moment you arrived,” Sansa muttered, raising her head again to look her in the eye. “That was a mistake. And I apologize for my outburst the other night. What you said brought back a lot of foul memories. It was no fault of your own.”

She placed her other hand atop of Sansa’s. “I'm here because I love your brother, and I trust him,” she said softly, the truth ringing as clear as a bell in every word, “and I know he's true to his word. He's only the second man in my life I can say that about.”

“Who was the first?”

“Someone taller.”

They shared a laugh and Daenerys felt more at ease then she and the whole time she’s been at Winterfell. Maybe a friendship with her wouldn’t have to be fake just for the sake of the realm, perhaps they could actually get along…

“Tell me, Your Grace, what happens afterwards? We defeat the dead, we destroy Cersei. What happens then?”

“I take the Iron Throne. With Jon at my side.”

“But what about the North?” 

Daenerys’ face fell, any amusement or humor or light fading in the shadow of a darkstorm cloud. That wasn’t what she wanted to talk about, this isn’t why she came, why did she need to start playing this game and forcing her into a conversation about politics now? 

Sansa too all of a sudden looked stern faced and hard. “It was taken from us, and we took it back. And we said we'd never bow to  **_anyone_ ** else again. So I am asking you now; what about the North?”

“I didn’t come to talk politics,” Daenerys said, quickly snatching her hands away.

“No, you came armed with flattery in hopes that I’ll help convince my people to bow down to you. I was taught by those who know how to play the game, and every one of them is a better liar than you. So, your Grace, tell me… what are your plans for the North? Because we will not bow, no matter how much you threaten to burn or break us.”

“I do not  **want** to burn or break the North!” she shouted. “I want to end Cersei, I thought we might’ve been allies! Our enemies are the same!”

“No.” Her eyes were hard, her mask of porcelain unreadable, expressionless. “They aren’t.”

Neither one of them turned away from the other, fire and ice raging and screaming from both of them. A timid knock on the door brought them both out of their stare down.

“Apologies, my lady. Your Grace,” the Maester said. “There’s someone just arrived in the main hall to see you. Both of you.”

The two women shared one last tense look before they stood and strode from the room, Daenerys cursing the long legs that made Sansa’s stride far longer than hers and kept her in front the whole time. But when they reached the front hall the Stark girl froze where she stood, and tears immediately jumped to her eyes.

Theon was standing there, with about twenty of his men behind him, all of them as unwashed and polished as the Ironborn were known to be.

Theon fell to his knee and bowed his head before he rose. “My Queen. 

Daenerys looked at the Ironborn, not finding hide or hear of Yara. “Your sister?”

“She only had a few ships and she couldn’t sail them here, so she’s sailed them to the Iron Islands, to take them back in your name.” 

She wore a proud and held her head high, eternally grateful for the raiders' loyalty. “But why aren’t you with her?”

Theon didn’t answer. She followed his eyes as he turned towards Lady Sansa, whose lip quivered and parted. “I want to fight for Winterfell, Lady Sansa.” His breath shook and his brown eyes grew wet. “If you’ll have me…”

Sansa raced across the room, throwing her arms around the curly haired boy and burning her face in his shoulder. He held her just as tight, fighting back the tears he wanted to shed so desperately.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Sansa’s wepta. “I didn’t… I heard your uncle, when he-... I thought…”

Theon pulled away and cupped her face with his hands. She closed her eyes, and rested her hand overtop of his and nuzzled into his touch. “I’m alright, he promised, emotions threatening to drown him. He brushed her long red hair with his hand. “I’m alright.”

Daenerys looked away from intruding on the private moment. This display of feelings was the most genuine show of emotion she saw from the redhead since she arrived in Winterfell. She heard stories from the Ironborn, about what happened to Theon, and she knew that the same man who hurt him had married Lady Sansa and hurt her as well, in all the ways women could be hurt. The commaradary they shared was similar to the one Daenerys served with the Dosh Kahleen. People forced together by wretched circumstances and over horrors none should have to suffer created a bond that could never be broken, by anyone.

Sansa wiped away her tears, finally remembering there were others in the room along with her. She stepped back from him. “We’re having a war council,” she told him, “now, in the map room. You are welcome to attend and your men are welcome to bread and stew in the kitchens.”

“Thank you, My Lady.”

Sansa didn’t once look back at Daenerys as the three of them walked to where the meeting was being held. It was crowded, nearly packed to the brim, with Northern generals and Knights of the Vale, Dothraki Blood Riders and Unsullied officers, Wildling commanders and Men of the Night's Watch, and now the Lord of the Ironborn. Jon stood at the head of the table, a long blueprint of Winterfell with colored stones denoting each of the armies laid out before him. Sansa immediately took her place to his left with Arya at her other side while Daenerys took the right. Sam stood off to the side with the Maester of Winterfell, and when she caught his eye he gave her a sad little smile and a wave before turning back to the meeting at hand. Jaime and Brienne stood side by side, the tallest two in the room, and standing so close they were practically touching. The tall woman was doing her best to ignore Tormund alternating between staring at her with big blue puppy eyes, and glaring at the golden haired knight by her side who paid about as much attention to him as he might pay the bite of a flea.

Bran sat behind Jon and said nothing. He just stared straight ahead, not seeing anyone else in the room with him. Daenerys looked over the map, swallowing hard when she saw the thick wall of stones repressing the dead, stretched out from end to end, and then back at their smaller armies, with massive gaps in-between.

Jon looked around the room, at all the enemies turned reluctant allies and took a deep breath before he began. “We can't beat them in a straight fight.”

“So, what can we do?” Jaime asked, peering over the map as though it was a book to read. 

“The Night King made them all,” said Jon. “They follow his command. If he falls Getting to him may be our best chance.”

“If that's true, he'll never expose himself.” 

“Yes, he will.”

Everyone in the room turned to look at Bran.

“He'll come for me,” he said in his eerily calm voice. “He's tried before, many times, with many Three-Eyed Ravens.”

“Why?” Sam asked. “What does he want?”

“An endless night. He wants to erase this world, and I am its memory.”

A tense silence took over the group as they all stared at one another, a thousand silent conversations happening all at once. Sam swallowed hard, his face a sheer white of fright. “That's what death is, isn't it?” He looked around the room at the host. “Forgetting. Being forgotten. If we forget where we've been and what we've done, we're not men anymore. Just animals. Your memories don't come from books. Your stories aren't just stories.” He turned to look at Bran. “If I wanted to erase the world of men, I'd start with you.”

Tyrion spoke from his spot besides Jorah. “How will he find you?”

“His mark is on me.” Bran lifted the cuff of his right arm. A bright red mark in the shape of a hand colored the skin. He always knows where I am.”

“We'll put you in the crypt,” Jon said, “where it's safest.”

“The crypt? Have you lost your bloody mind?” Tormund argued, with no grace or decorum. “You’ve seen what he can do to the dead. You want to put women and children down there with eight thousand years of dead?”

“The Stark crypts are thought to have magic,” Sansa argued. Daenerys looked towards Jon and she could see the doubt in his eyes. This decision has not been his. “Brandon the Builder built the wall and this castle, including the crypts. He wouldn’t leave it undefended from the dead. The Stark kings of old will protect us.”

“Aye I know all the stories of the builder, Stark. He was one of my people before he became your king. But do you want to risk being wrong on a legend?”

“The Starks have magic,” she said. “The North has magic, Winterfell has magic. I trust it to keep us safe.”

“Yes yes, and Casterly Rock has the three white lions of Lann the Clever that prowl in the night to defend the keep, and Durran Godsgrief protects Stormsend against the Sea Gods wrath with his mighty hammer of thunder,” Jaime said, his bored tone letting her know exactly what he thought of the legends of the ancient castles. “All the old keeps have magic and stories and myths, meant to make the children of lords feel safer when their fathers are away at war and their mothers are busy in the castellan’s bed. Don’t risk your life on the hope that this one happens to be real.”

Sansa glared at the green eyed man but said nothing. She turned to Jon. “Where do you suppose we put the women and children instead?” she demanded, as though he had been the one to challenge her. Jon looked over the map, gnawing at his lip before he pointed towards a large stone tower. “The First Keep,” he finally said. “It’ll be tight but it’s big enough to fit everyone, and there’s only one way in. We’ll have the guards,” he pointed to a Northern general with one eye, “standing outside incase they breach the walls. That’s where we’ll put the women and children and that’s where we’ll put Bran”

“No,” the boy said. “We need to lure him into the open before his army destroys us all. I'll wait for him in the Godswood.

Jon, Arya and Sansa all stared at him. 

“You want us to use you as bait?” Sansa asked, horrified. 

“We're not leaving you alone out there,” Arya added.

“He won't be.” Everyone turned towards Theon. “I'll stay with him,” he promised. “With the Ironborn, we have archers and axemen, we’ll keep him safe.” He turned to look at Sansa again who looked close to tears but this time she kept her decorum. “I took this castle from you. Let me defend you now.”

She forced a stiff upper lip and gave a curt nod. Jon looked less than enthused but he moved on. “We have the catapults right behind the siege lines.” He turned towards another Northmen, a young girl no older than eleven. “Tell it true, Lady Karstark. Do you believe your men are capable of manning the trebuchets?”

She promised her House would be ready and Jon gave a curt nod. “Good.” He pointed to two sets of stones on the far sides of the battle, crude looking horses painted on them. “The Dothraki will come in from the sides. You ride in quick, strike the edges of the mass and ride back out. Keep doing that again and again and again, try to draw a few towards you.”

“Back and forth, back and forth, that is fighting like cowards,” her Bloodrider Bahbo spat. “Dothraki no cowards.”

“No one is saying that,” Jon promised him. “But you ride in head first and they will overwhelm every one of your horses. It’ll be like trying to ride through quicksand. This way is better, trust me.”

Sansa scoffed. “So you’re allowing her men a chance to retreat constantly and only pick off a few at a time?”

“This is how a flank defense works, Sansa,” said Jon, fighting to keep his voice even. “We aren’t trying to out-maneuver them, we’re just trying to fight them. This is the best plan.”

“I don’t care, you won’t be putting our men on the front lines while hers stays off to the side!”

“I’m not!” he barked, all patience lost. “The night king is coming before the sun rises tomorrow!” There were low nervous grumbles throughout the room. “We don’t have time to argue, none of us! The Dothraki are on the flank and I won’t hear another word about it!”

Sansa glared at her brother and he glared back, a tense stand-off before she conceived and turned away from him, eyes furious and brimming with fire. Jon slammed his finger down on the paper again, much harder than necessary. “Half of the Unsullied will take the center, the other half will be behind the first wave. Their job will be to protect the retreat. You’re our best infantry, no one else will have a chance to hold them back after the first wave of assault,” he said, already anticipating an argument. But instead Grey Worm just gave a curt nod, and nothing else was said.

“Tormund, you, the Night's Watch and the wildlings will take the right.” Jon turned to Brienne then. “You and the Valesmen will take the left.”

“No, she won’t.”

They all turned towards Jaime who just gave a shake of the head. “You gave a command to someone who's never even fought in a battle before and has never commanded an army in her life. That’s suicide. Which fool was the one to put her in this position in the first place?”

“I did,” Sansa said crossly. “She’s the only one I trust to lead the Knights of the Vale.”

“Then you’re not only a fool but a paranoid one at that.”

“I’ll be fine, Ser Jaime,” Brienne said quickly, hoping to douse the building fire in its crib.

“No, Wench. I won’t have you out there killing yourself just because she has trust issues. I won’t allow it. I will lead the Valesmen.”

“The men won’t trust you,” Sansa spat. “They hate the Lannisters almost as much as the Northmen do.”

His smile was dazzling but dangerous. “Then I suggest they learn to get over it before the battle. I’ve more experience leading armies in battle than anyone here,” he said looking around the room. None contradicted the claim. “You’re going to allow me to take control, and Lady Brienne will be my second in command.” Jaime looked to the woman beside him. “If she trusts me enough to lead her.”

Brienne picked up her head and met his eyes. “To fight under you would be the greatest honor of my life, Ser Jaime.” 

Her words were soft, their expression softer, and they didn’t turn away from each other until Tyrion’s voice rang out and called them back to attention. “When the time comes, Ser Davos and I will be on the walls, to give you the signal to light the trench.”

This time it was Daenerys who spoke up. “Ser Davos is perfectly capable of waving a torch on his own. Arya can stay and protect him. You'll be in the tower.”

“Your Grace, I have fought before,” he said. “I can do it again. Alongside the men and women risking their lives.”

“There are thousands of them and only one of you. You can't fight as well as they can, but you can think better than any of them. You're here because of your mind. If we survive, I'll need it.”

Tyrion swelled with pride and nodded.

“The dragons should give us an edge in the field,” Davos added. 

Jon shook his head. “If they're in the field, they're not protecting Bran.”

“If one dragon can’t protect him I doubt two will,” said Jaime, an unpleasant truth but a truth nonetheless. “When they’re stuck behind the trench archers will only be able to do so much. Even if it’s just for ten minutes they’ll be at a complete standstill. How many thousands could we burn in just ten minutes?”

“Five minutes,” Jon corrected, finding no fault in his plan but unwilling to risk Brans life for any longer. “Daenerys burns them for five minutes and then she pulls back to the Godswood. We need to be near him. Not too near, or the Night King won't come. But close enough to pursue him when he does.”

“Will dragon fire stop him?” Arya asked her brother. 

“I don't know,” Bran answered. He was rather amused at that fact, or as amused as he could be. “No one's ever tried.”

“Well we’re going to find out…” Jon looked to the Maester. “How many healers do we have?”

“We have 18 Maesters that came from the various Northern houses and 23 of healers that came with the Dothraki.” Daenerys saw him glance at Sansa and the redhead fixed him a stern look. “If there are any others who know the healing arts I encourage them to put down their sword and join us, My Lord.” His voice had a surprising edge to it and he turned towards Jon. “Hopefully we sit bored and unissued and it will be a waste of manpower but we both know the truth about battles.”

Jon nodded before he looked towards Sam who appeared indigent at the unasked suggestion. “I can fight,” he argued. “Let me remind you that I was the first to kill a White Walker. I killed a Thenn.”

“I need you in the healing tent more than I need you on the field,” Jon said not unkindly. “You are one of the smartest men I know Sam, but you aren’t a good fighter. It wouldn’t be fair to the men around you that they need to worry about protecting you and themselves, and I know how guilty you would feel if one of your brothers lost their lives looking after you.”

Sam bowed his head, the shame of a hypothetical case where someone died trying to protect him nearly overwhelming him. “I’ll stay inside and assist Maester Walkin with the injured.”

Jon smiled and clapped the large man on the shoulder before he turned to look around at the gathered group. “The dead are coming. We’ve fought each other on the battlefield, we have grudges old and new, when this is over we’ll probably meet each other in war again on opposite sides. But none of that matters now. The Nightking doesn’t care if you’re a Stark or a Lannister, a Knight of the Vale or a Targaryen. What animal flies on your sigil doesn’t matter to him, which Lord or Lady or monarch holds your allegiance doesn’t matter to him. The living need to band together, and we need to win. Or there won’t be anyone living left.” 

A heavy silence settled over the group, a feeling of an inevitability of impending doom in the air choking them all with fear.

“We’re all going to die,” Tormund said, eyes drifting to the Tarth woman and smiling widely at her. “But at least we’ll die together.” Brienne quickly looked away, rolling her eyes to the heavens when the wildling was no longer gaping at her. 

After Jon told them to have all of their men go and collect their weapons from the forges, at long-last they were all dismissed, and the room cleared out, leaving only Jon and Daenerys alone. She wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder.

“What if this doesn’t work?” he asked without turning from the map. “What if we can’t beat them back?”

She kissed his shoulder. “We will. I know we will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I have faith in you. You will not lead us astray.” He turned around to face her and she draped her arms around his neck. “We will come out of this alive, Jon Snow.”

His smile was a sad flicker in the pale light. “That’s not my name though, is it?”

“Your name is whatever you choose it to be.” Her fingers danced through his thick black curls. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “I’ve been so consumed with the enemy to the North, I haven’t really processed…” He swallowed hard. His voice was choked in tears and anger. “My father lied to me. My whole life. All the sneers and mockery, all the long nights I spent lying awake wondering who my mother was and what she looked like… He saw me suffering and let it happen. I know he was just protecting me from Robert but I wouldn’t have told anyone. I would have kept it a secret, I wouldn’t have minded being called a bastard if I knew the truth.” He shook his head and pulled away from Daenerys, walking over to the window and staring at the battlements. “My whole life all I wanted was to be a Stark. Not even to inherit l but to be called Lord Stark the same as Robb or Bran or Rickon just once, to have that connection with my father that they shared But now… Now I don’t know what I am.”

“You still have Stark blood inside you,” she reminded him as she walked over and stood beside him. “Eddard Stark may be your uncle rather than your father, Robb and Sansa and the rest may be your cousins rather than your siblings but you all share the same blood. Your lineage comes from the Kings of Winter and the Dragon Lords. Aegon the Conqueror and Torren Stark, Brandon the Builder and the Blood of Old Valyria… Yours is a song of ice and fire, Jon Snow.” She rested her hand on his face and he turned his head to press a kiss to her gloved palm. “No matter what lies your father told you or why.” 

Jon opened his eyes and gazed down into hers. “I’m sorry,” he said, burying a hand in her long silver hair. “You’re suffering as much as I am and you sit here comforting me.”

She shook her head. “Don’t. You are allowed to mourn and voice your upset to me, about anything. Don’t ever feel you have to hold back for my benefit. Besides, I may have lost the legal claim to the throne but I found something much more important.”

“What’s that?”

Daenerys smiled at him. “A family. 

Jon melted at her words and wrapped her in his arms, pulling her tight against him and capturing her lips in a kiss. She moaned into his mouth as he held her, their kisses growing more impassioned at every passing moment. He was the first to pull away, and already she missed the feel of his lips on hers, the feel of his wiry beard against her face. “I need to go and check on the trenches,” he signed rather reluctantly. “See if they need any help.” He slipped his hand, the one he burned, into hers and squeezed gently before they headed out to the courtyard, side by side, a united front. 

There wasn’t a single man in the yard who wasn’t rushing or hollering or working, preparing for the battlefield. For once no one so much as soared a glance at the two of them and even some the more rebellious Northmen couldn’t be bothered with their usual pettiness and muttered a hasty, “‘excuse me, Your Grace,” as they hurried past and she happened to be in their way.

The trenches, a deep wide pit five feet across half a mile or so out from the castle, were nearing completion. It would be done in the nick of time, with the gates closing just as the last builder hammered in the final nail. Both Unsullied and Northmen were busy digging and hammering the sharp planks into position, but when they saw their two leaders standing before them the Unsullied stood to rapt attention, awaiting the order to carry on. The Northmen stood at attention as well, though it had been a far slower move to stillness and they looked none too happy about it but Daenerys didn’t care what sour look they wore or the curses that would be spoken when she left.

They followed the protocols. That was all she wanted.

All except one, a grizzled older man with scraggly white hair standing in front of Daenerys in the pit. He took a swig of water, glaring at her all the whole, at spat at her feet before turning back to his work. 

Even the Northmen knew he went too far. The look in Jon’s eyes was terrifying. His hand curled around the hilt of his sword and he jumped into the trenches, and the Unsullied and Northmen immediately parted for him. 

Jon grabbed him by the coat and swung him around to face him. His fist landed hard against his teeth, and his head flew back. Jon hit him again and again, moving far too fast for the older man to block, hitting him until he was limp and when he finally let him go he slumped to the muddy ground. A strange gurgling sound passed from his lips. 

None of his fellows moved to help him. 

Jon turned his heated gaze on the rest of the Northmen. Daenerys saw it now, the rage of the direwolf burning inside him as hot as dragons fire. “If any of you!” he roared as he stood beside the man laying on the ground. “Ever! And I meant  **EVER** do that again, what I just did will seem like a mercy!” His shouting roused the attention of half the yard and no one but him was speaking. “She is your  **QUEEN** and you dare disrespect her! More than that, she is a  **WOMAN,** a Highborn at that! Would any of you have suffered Lady Catelyn like that?! Or my sisters?! Your wives or daughters?! The next man I see or hear about or even if they THINK about such fragrant disrespect towards Queen Daenerys will like the consequences far less, I  **PROMISE** you!” He glared at the Northmen and pointed towards the unconscious man at his feet. “Get this piece of shit out of my trench and bring him to a Maester.”

“Yes, My Lord,” they muttered, moving quickly to get him out of the trench. Jon was helped out by an Unsullied and the moment he was on the high ground again Daenerys took hold of his jacket and pulled her to him, slamming her lips against his. Jon returned the kiss hungrily, clutching at her waist as he pulled her against him.

“You’ve checked on the trenches enough,” Daenerys ordered, not told, but ordered and he nodded in agreement. Without another moment wasted she grabbed his hand and made the long way back to her chambers...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for those of you unaware there was a deleted s new in S8 where they’re walking along the trenches and one of the Northmen spit at her, like legit spit at her feet, and Jon just laughs and smiles. To this day I’m half convinced it was a mistake and it was supposed to go in bloopers rather than the deleted scenes and it was just Kit laughing at the absurdity of it all. But anyway, I’m out here fixing canon AND deleted scenes apparently lol.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Dragon and the Wolf**

As soon as the door to the chambers slammed shut they wasted no time in devouring each other. Jon’s mouth crashed against hers, tearing at her skirts as he hurried to remove her crimson gown. Daenerys was no less eager and yanked his shirt up over her head, panting as she tugged at the ties holding his breeches closed.

“I love you,” he growled low in her ear, taking it between her teeth and making her gasp as he pinned her against the wall and pressed up against her, trapping her with nowhere to go. “I love your perfect tits, your perfect ass, your beautiful tight cunt… I love you, Dany.”

Daenerys shuddered as a flood of fire washed over her as he snarled his words. His hands groped at her breasts, taking a nipple between his fingers and rolling it between them. 

“Please!” she gasped, clutching at her shoulders with nails so dagger sharp they drew red. “Jon, please!”

He buried his hand in her hair and yanked and she cried out his name again. Her cunt was soaked and dripping, and it was all for him.

“You are a queen,” he snarled, kissing her long pale neck, offended on her behalf. “You do not ever beg.”

She threw her head back as his hands dug into the pale white of her thighs and lifted her up as easy as if she weighed a feather. She hooked her legs around his waist, groaning as she felt him pressing against her wet cunt, hard and smooth and perfect. 

When he pushed into her he filled her, wholly and magnificently and drew a long well earned moan from her lips. Daenerys cried and gasped and groaned as he slammed into her, whispering in her ears how much he loved his queen, how much he loved fucking his queen, how much he loved his queens tight beautiful pussy, how good his queens juicy round ass felt in his hands…

Daenerys could do nothing but allow him to fuck her, over and over, again and again, pumping his magnificent cock into her until she was screaming his name for all the North to hear. 

The fireplace was lit, it’s flames hotter then fire she ever felt, drawing a wet sheen of sweat to her brow. Out of of the corner of her eyes she saw the flames in the stone dancing, moving, fucking, growing higher and higher, hotter and hotter, more and more darker until they were shooting up, up, up past the mantle.

_ Mysha _ the flames seemed to hiss at her as they grew higher and higher, the fire licking the ceiling.  _ Mysha... Mysha…  _

Jon roared, Daenerys screamed, and the roaring flames licked the ceiling as the three of them reached a crescendo bursting with heat, and so intense that she had never felt it before, not ever, and she doubted she ever would again. She buried her face in his shoulder, gasping for air as he slowly and carefully sat her back down on the floor. When she looked back to the fireplace the flames were smaller, subdued, as they were before they walked in, with only blackened scorch marks on the white marble and the stone ceiling to show for it.

Jon was panting. He held her tight in his arms, and her fingers danced along the faded scars on his arms. “I’ve never…” he said, his voice trembling. “That was…”

“I know,” Daenerys agreed, brushing back his black curls, soaked with sweat. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and inhaled, breathing in his scent of sweat and leather and horses, of a bracing but comforting cold. “I know…”

He started to lead her to the bed but she rested her hands on his chest to give him pause. “The fireplace,” she told him. Daenerys draped her arms around his neck and peppered his face with kisses. “Let’s lay besides the fireplace…”

Jon grabbed one of the furs from the bed and spread it out on the floor before he took hold of Daenerys hand and laid down beside her. She closed her eyes as the heat of the flames washed over her like a warm bath. Her fingers danced along her bare stomach, laying so closets the fireplace that the flames were kissing her skin. Jon took her in his arms, brushing her disheveled hair from her face. “I’m sorry for what my country’s done to you,” he told her gently. “I never thought they would show such blatant disrespect”

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered, dancing over the burn scars on his palm. “You are a good man, a good Lord. It’s my father that made them distrustful. I can’t blame them for mistrusting me.”

“But you are their queen. You saved their kings life.” He buried his hand in her hair. “You are not like your father.”

Violet eyes filled with sudden tears. “But what if I am? I’ve burned men alive, I’ve threatened to burn cities to the ground, and sometimes I… I just get so angry…”

“You think executing men and occasionally losing your temper makes you like the Mad King?” He cupped her face with his. “Fire is the weapon of House Targaryen. It’s a cruel weapon to be sure, but it is the truth. Fire is what made Aegon a conqueror, not steel, but fire and blood. As for your temper, well…” Daenerys melted at his smile. “I rather like an angry woman.”

Daenerys laughed before she smiled at her lover, her fire and ice, her wolf and her dragon both. She cupped his face in her hand and she kissed him, drawing a beautiful moan from his lips. She climbed atop of him, before leaning down to kiss him, grinding against what was between his legs, filling them both with fire and want. 

“Dany,” he breathed into her mouth as she reached between them and stroked him until he grew hard and smooth in her hand. She sank down on him, moaning as he stretched her, running her hands over his chest as she began to ride him.

His hands took hold of her hips, guiding her as she moved up and down, up and down, slow, savoring his every inch. Her fingers raked through the forest of black curls on his chest and Daenerys moaned as she threw her head back. “Jon,” she breathed as she took him for her own. “Jon… Jon… Jon.”

And he whispered back, his voice as soft as a breeze as his hands ran over her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, her hips and holding her. “Dany, Dany, Dany….”

They came together with no otherworldly explosions, no screaming, no stars bursting before each others eyes. And when they were done she laid on top of him, letting him soften inside her as she rested her head overtop his heart, the sound a slow steady lullaby meant for her ears only. 

“Daenerys,” he whispered her name and she turned to look at him. For a moment she swore she saw flecks of purple in the grey of his eyes dancing in the soft light of the firelight. His fingers brushed the long silver tresses of her hair from her face. “Marry me.”

Her eyes went wide, and for a moment the whole world stilled and ceased to turn, ceased to exist, as did everything else in the known world. Nothing excited besides the two of them and the fireplace they were laying down besides. 

“Marry me, Daenerys of House Targaryen,” he said again when she gave no answer. 

She sniffed and wiped at the tears growing in her eyes. “You’re really asking me this when we’re about to face the end of the world in a few hours?”

His lips flickered up into a smile. “Seems to me that’s the perfect time to ask a question like this.”

A beat of silence and then she was laughing, loud and jubilant, and he joined in as well. They both were grinning madly when the laughter finally died. He rested a hand on her face and she quickly covered it with her own. “Well?” he asked as and she nodded, sniffing away her tears.

“Yes,” she breathed. She laughed again and spoke louder, for all the world to hear. “Yes, Jon Snow, yes, yes, a hundred times yes!”

He beamed as bright as the stars and kissed her lips, her nose, her jaw, her eyelids, her face, where he could reach. He wrapped her arms around her and she around him, and they held each other as tight and as close as any had ever held each other before. 

As they went to kiss each other again there was a frantic knock at the door. They made themselves decent, her in her robe and him in his breeches before Jon answered the door to find Arya standing there, eyes wide.

“You need to come to the forges,” she said quickly. “Now.”

“Why?” Jon asked. “What happened?”

Arya looked past him at Daenerys for a moment before she turned back to Jon. “Sansa’s done something…”

  
**The Smith and No One**

_ Well… That wasn’t too bad. _

Arya stared up at the ceiling as Gendry slept sounding besides her, snoring softly. She ached between her legs but it was a different ache then what she was used to. This was the kind of aching only women could suffer.

She threw the blankets off and looked at herself in the reflecting glass on the wall of her chambers. Her maidenhood blood stained her thighs, her lips were plumped and red from where he kissed them, and dark marks that looked like bruises he made with his teeth marked her neck and breasts while bitemarks and red handprints, his handprints, littered her ass. 

She didn’t feel any different. She was told by the septa this was what REALLY made a girl into a woman, it would change her they all said. But Arya still felt like Arya. She still had no desire to swoon over the stories her sister loved, to blush cute little blushes, to settle down and become a Lady… She still wanted the same thing she wanted before only now she just happened to have his seed inside her and the wetness from his tongue all over her while she wanted them.

She heard movement from the bed and the next moment she felt his arms wrap around her from behind. 

_ Gods he’s tall, and massive. Or maybe I’m just  _ **_that_ ** _ short and skinny...  _

“I gotta get back to the forges,” he whispered, laying a kiss to her shoulder. “Hey…” Gendry said when she didn’t answer him. “Everything alright?”

She turned in his arms and stared up at him. “Is there going to be a number five?”

Gendry blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Number five. I was number four,” she said smoothly. “Is there going to be a number five?”

“I-... No? Probably not?”

“Is that an answer or a question?”

“... An answer?”

Her lips flickered upwards into a smile before she pulled his face to hers, kissing him and giving his muscled ass a good slap before they started to dress.

“You’re still working on weapons?” she asked as she pulled on her shirt. “Isn’t it cutting it a little close?”

“We have all the swords and daggers made,” he said as he laced up his breeches. “The arrows, unsullied spears… we still got about ¼ of the arakhs to do though.”

Arya furrowed her brow. “Why so many?”

“Makker just told us to get the rest of the weapons done before we work on the Dothraki.” He shrugged as he sat in the bed and pulled on his socks and boots. “I don’t make the decisions, I just do what I’m told.”

She pursed her lips as she smoothed out her hair. “I’m coming with you to the forges. Ordering you to make them until the last minute doesn’t make sense.”

After they dressed they both headed towards the forges. It was cold, even colder than usual, and darkness was settling over the yard far earlier than the day before. The fires were stifling and a dozen or so men were handing out the dragonglass weapons to the long line outside the forges. Thousands of swords and daggers and spears, tens of thousands of arrows, and a large but noticeably smaller pile of arakhs covered the tables, and the smiths were working as fast as they could bending and hammering and shaping the dragonglass into the scythe-swords of the Dothraki. 

“M’Lady,” Makker grunted without looking up from his own slab of Dragonstone. “If ya don’t mind we’re a little busy…”

“I’m not a lady, and I’ll get out of your hair soon. Why are you so far behind on the arakhs?”

“Ask your sister,” he said as he quickly fixed the hook blade to an unpolished steel hilt and put it in a growing pile beside him. 

“Why would I ask Sansa? What does she have to do with the forges?”

Makker sighed as he finally looked up, wiping the sweat from his brow. “She gave the order to wait until the rest of the weapons were done before we worked on the arakhs.” Her Grey Stark eyes went wide and her jaw dropped.

“Wait, what? Why would she do that?”

“Said not to waste the time we had and to focus on the other weapons first.

“We’ll be sending them into a slaughter,” Arya muttered more to herself than the smith who already turned his attention back to the dragonglass. “They won’t have enough weapons…”

“I know. Told her as much, too. But since Jon or the queen never came by and told me otherwise I assumed they knew and signed off on it.”

“They didn’t come and say otherwise because they didn’t know! Now a quarter of our flank won’t be able to fight!”

“I don’t know, Arya, but I need to get back to work.”

No… No, this was wrong. People would end up killed, the flank would be crippled, Daenerys would be angrier at Sansa then she already was. Why had Sansa done this? She couldn’t have been THAT upset at the arrival at the Dragon Queens forces. Arya knew they lost the North and while initially she was as upset as her sister, once she saw the massive armies, the dragons, once she saw the love and devotion in Daenerys’ eyes when she looked at Jon… she knew her brother made the right choice to give up the North.

Arya was not a politician. She loathed the games Sansa played but understood, sometimes, why she did what she had to do. But this wasn’t a game, this was people’s lives, people didn’t have to come and help save them but did anyway, people who helped Arya’s horse when the stableboy couldn’t figure out what was why her little black gelding was sick. Sansa went too far this time, she had to tell someone.

The young wolf didn’t waste time saying goodbye to Gendry. She hurried to the Lords chambers and pounded on the door. A moment later Jon answered the door shirtless. 

“You need to come to the forges. Now.”

“Why? What happened?”

Arya looked past him at Daenerys for a moment before she turned back to Jon. She would draw the ire of the dragon on her sister but this couldn’t stand. “Sansa’s done something…”

**The Survivors of the Flayed Man**

“I brought you some food.”

Theon smiled up at her as Sansa sat down opposite him on an overturned barrel, handing him a steaming bowl of soup served in brown bread. It was a simple soup, beef broth with a few vegetables and Sansa made sure to make sure he got some chunks of meat.

“Thank you,” he said, taking a bite. “It’s quite good.”

“Good.” Sansa looked down at her own stew, stirring the onions and carrots around with her spoon. “Are you scared?”

He nodded. “I am. You’d have to be a fool not to be. My one consultation is that the dead don’t take prisoners. They aren’t interested in prolonging pain or battle, just on killing as many of us as they can as fast as they can.”

“I suppose that’s a small comfort. I just wish that…”

“What?”

“I wish you weren’t here.”

“...I see.”

The voice was sadder than anything she ever heard. She looked up from her soup and saw the pain in his eyes. Sansa lifted his face with a finger. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said softly. “I meant that I don’t want to worry about you. I’m terrified already for Jon and Arya and Brienne and now I have you to worry about as well, as much as them.” 

Theon swallowed hard as he looked at her. “You’re worried about me?”

“Of course I am! You-...” Her lip trembled dangerously and she blinked away the tears in her eyes. “I’ve been worried for you since the day you rode back home,” she whispered.

He bowed his head. “I don’t deserve your worry, Lady Sansa. I don’t deserve anyone’s worry.”

“You do.” Sansa set her bowl down and took her face in his hands and lifted it until he was looking at her. “You deserve everyone’s worry, especially mine. You saved me. If it weren’t for you I don’t know what would have happened to me.”

“We saved each other.”

“I did nothing.”

“You did. You- you were the reason I found the strength to break away from Ramsey. I hated seeing you h- hurt.” The tears were falling now, and Sansa didn’t bother to wipe them away. “I just w- wish I could have been stronger for you sooner.”

“You were strong enough in time,” she said. Sansa had to bite back a sob as she stroked his face with her thumbs. “You need to be strong enough now Theon. You need to survive. You need to protect my brother and come back to me.”

“I will,” he promised. His voice was trembling. “I’ll come back to you, Lady Sansa. I swear it.”

“Sansa!” They both turned and saw Jon storming across the yard fuming and angrier than they ever saw him. “I need to speak with you  _ now.” _

Sansa glanced at Theon for a moment before she stood and followed Jon into the keep and into a small room off the main hall where Daenerys was waiting, the fire in her eyes raging. 

“You wretched  _ bitch!” _ Daenerys hissed, and Sansa’s eyes flew wide open.

“Excuse me?!” she snapped before whipping towards Jon. “You’re going to let her speak to me like that?!”

“Shut up!” Jon barked and Sansa took a step back, eyes wide. 

“Jon…”

He cut her off sharply. “You told the smiths not to make any arakhs?”

She swallowed hard before she held herself as tall as she could. “If you’ll allow me to speak to you in private-.”

“No you’re going to speak to the two of us here, now.”

She narrowed her eyes at the man. “Fine. She tried to take our dragonglass away so we would be short on weapons. So since they would be low on the obsidian for weapons because of HER choice to use them in the trebuchets, I told them not to waste time on making the specialized arakhs.”

“Do you realize what you’ve done?!” Jon roared and Sansa flinched. “You took nearly a quarter of the Dothraki out of the field! More than that we would have sent them in without proper weapons if Arya didn’t tell us and not know any better! They would have  _ died _ Sansa! Men who had the option to stay behind but came to help us fight anyway would have died!” 

“They can use regular swords!” Sansa argued. “If they’re good enough for our men they should be good enough for hers!”

“They fight on horseback!” Daenerys yelled.

“So do our men and swords work just fine!”

“Not as well as a curved blade, not  _ nearly _ as well!” 

“She tried to take our dragonglass,” she told Jon. “She would have crippled the Northern soldiers, YOUR soldiers!”

“It’s HER dragonglass, first off!” Jon reminded her. “She allowed us to mine it but every piece of it came from Dragonstone! And no, it wouldn’t have, it was extra barrels they weren’t going to get to in time to use! NO ONE would have been without! But now because of your bloody games I have to figure out where we’re going to find about 15,000 mounted men!”

“Send the Northmen to the flank.” She narrowed her eyes. “You were so eager to give her Dothraki the easy position, send the Northmen there instead.”

“The Northmen are sharing the center with the Unsullied, Sansa, I can’t move them!”

“Okay so move the Wildlings.”

“They’ve never even seen a fucking horse until they came to Winterfell, I can’t send them to fight on horseback! I can’t move anyone! You’ve crippled them, Sansa! And the one without weapons won’t even go and hide with the women and children so we not only have them out of the field we now have about 15,000 liabilities! This is YOUR fault!” 

Daenerys was trembling with rage and the look on her face sent a shudder down her spine. “If my khalasar dies because of what you did…”

“What?” Sansa demanded. “What will happen.  _ Your Grace _ ?”

Her voice turned low and deadly. “You will find out the answer to what dragons eat first hand. If it wasn’t for the fact that ending your life would cause a civil war of MY kingdom, you would already be nothing but ash mixed in with your northern snows.”

Sansa looked to Jon to defend her, to calm the blonde's rage, for him to urge peace but instead he just sat there glaring at her, arms crossed, allowing this woman to threaten his sister.

Daenerys turned back to Jon. “I need to talk to my Dothraki, try to convince them to stay behind the walls.”

“I’ll try to figure something out. Go do what you need to do.” Daenerys stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

“You would let her kill me,” Sansa said, swallowing the hard lump in her throat when it was just her and Jon. “For trying to protect our men.”

“You weren’t protecting our men! You were thinking the worst of her when all she was doing was trying to help and because to you that's 15,000 troops we don’t have to defend the North!”

Her eyes filled with tears. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“What do you want me to say, Sansa?!” he yelled, throwing his hands in the air in dismay. “She is a queen, those are her men! Would you spare her if she took away the swords from ⅓ of the northmen?! Which, by the way, I had to beg her not to do because we were crippled enough because of your actions! But if she hadn’t listened to me I would not have blamed her and I would have made  _ sure _ the fallout landed on you! The Northern Lords turning against you,” he spat. “That would have hit you exactly where it hurt the most.” Jon sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. 

He looked so tired, so weary, and Sansa felt a twisting guilt in her stomach. She didn’t mean to make this battle harder on him, she thought he would see her point, he would understand why she had to do what she did. Jon wouldn’t play the game, he proved that. He was too honorable, he was too much like their father. All she wanted was to keep him safe from the same fate. She lost enough brothers, she would not lose another.

“I’m sorry,” said Sansa softly. “I was just-.”

“You were trying to play a game and you will end up costing people’s lines because of it. Who does that sound like to you?” Tears welled in her eyes that Jon ignored. “I don’t know what to do,” he muttered. “I have to figure this out. I have MAYBE three hours to figure out something to do. Just… stay out my way, Sansa.”

He pushed past Sansa without a second look, leaving the young wolf very, very alone.

**The Honorable Knights**

“Any knight can make another knight.” Jaime drew his sword from its scabbard. “I’ll prove it.” He walked boldly to the center of the room, Brienne looking on curiously, and pointed his sword to the ground. “Kneel, Lady Brienne.”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, bowing her head after. He was jesting with her, a way to make everyone have a good laugh before the battle. 

Only no one else was laughing.

“Do you want to be a knight or not?”

She looked up, eyes wide. There was no amusement in his expression, no mocking in his eyes. He was being sincere. “Kneel,” he repeated gently. 

She looked towards Pod, half expecting him to start laughing at the idea of her becoming a knight. Instead he just smiled and nodded, letting her know it was okay for her to want this, it was okay for her to want and receive something of her own.

She stood from her chair, hand resting on the hilt of her sword. She and Jaime looked at one another for an eternity before she forced her feet forward and kneeled before him, jaw trembling from nerves and excitement and fear and joy. She stared straight ahead, and she could hear his fingers dancing on the hilt of Widow's Wail, just as nervous as she was. 

Jaime laid his sword on her right shoulder. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” He lifted it and moved it to her left. His voice didn’t waver or tremble once. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” The tip of his sword touched her right shoulder again. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.” When he lifted his sword Brienne lifted her head and turned her gaze to him. “Arise, Brienne of Tarth… a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

She stood slowly, neither one of them taking their eyes from the other. The wide-eyed awe he was looking at her with sent her heart pounding. The room fell away, those watching fell away, the whole world fell away until only her and Jaime were the only two things that existed in this world.

Someone clapped, and they both remembered there were others in the room. She turned towards the watching group, the only Southerners who offered their services in this fight and Tormund, who was beaming and applauding wildly for her louder than the rest.

“Ser Brienne of Tarth!” Tyrion cried in revelation as he raised his glass. “Knight of the Seven Kingdoms!”

Tears leapt to her eyes as she whipped her head back to look at Jaime. 

Had this really happened? Was this really hers? Was she really a knight, was she really granted the title she wanted her whole life, a title she coveted more than anything else in this world?

Jaime smiled and nodded as if to say that the answer to all her unasked questions was a resounding yes before he stepped away so she could have her moment alone in the sun. When she saw him rejoin the crowd and began cheering along with the rest of them she couldn’t help herself, nor did she want to. Tears streamed down her face as she beamed a wide lipped grin at the group that she had been told her whole life was as unattractive as the rest of her. She showed too much teeth when she smiled like this, her lips were too wide, she should stick to small dainty smiles because of how ugly it was but right now Brienne didn’t care about the voices of her septa or those who had been cruel throughout her life. 

She smiled, because she knew Jaime would never think her show of joy ugly.

Podrick rose from his seat and hugged her tight, and she embraced her young squire, wiping away the tears from her eyes. “I’m so proud of you, Ser,” he said, sounding just as emotional as the newly made knight. 

“Thank you, Podrick.” She sniffed away the last of her tears. “You will be here too one day. I swear it.”

Afterwards they took her seats again, and Tormund raised his ale-horn to the sky. “To the first lady knight in the south!” he roared. “Couldn’t have happened to a better woman!” He downed the horn of ale and clapped her hard on the shoulder. “Ya know… I’ve got my own sword just as big as the one who knighted ya,” he purred, wagging his brows.

“Well I’m flattered, but uninterested,” Jaime mused, pouring himself and Brienne another cup of wine and saving her the embarrassment of having to answer the crude statement. The group roared with laughter and when the golden haired knight caught Brienne’s eye he smiled and winked. A faint blush rushed to her cheeks and she bowed her head, a shy little smile on her lips and a flutter in her heart as he handed her a fresh cup of wine and took his seat beside her. 

A comfortable silence enveloped the group for a long while as they sat there, drinking the last of the wine from their cups until Tyrion asked for a song.

Brienne had never been one for singing. She would get nervous when everyone was looking at her, and the nervousness would turn to stammering and the stammering would lead to a cracked voice on the high notes and the high notes would lead to sniggering. Lady Catelyn asked her once if she ever sang for King Renly and she hadn’t, but she wanted to. If someone asked her now, if she ever sang for Ser Jaime, she would give the same answer.

All of the group declined, and just as they were about to fall back into silence, the sweetest sound she ever heard flew like a soft breeze from Podrick. She gaped at him for a moment before she settled back into her chair, closing her eyes and letting his beautiful voice wash over her.

It was Jenny of Oldstomes, a haunting tale about the princess Jenny, the wife to Duncan Targaryen, mourning her prince after the tragedy of Summerhall where Brienne’s own great grandfather Duncan the Tall passed after he risked his life saving as many as he could from the raging inferno. 

As he sang the final lines Brienne couldn’t help the slow tear that fell down her cheek as she thought about all those in her own life.

_ High in the halls of the kings who are gone _

_ Jenny would dance with her ghosts _

_ The ones she had lost. _

Her mother, Galladon, her sisters who were too young to even speak a word when a chill took them. Lady Catelyn and His Grace Renly, both of whom she loved and promised to protect, both of whom she failed.

_ And the ones she has found. _

Her squire Podrick and Lady Sansa, the two people in this world who never mocked her, who never tried to change her, who respected her as she was. She would die for each of them, and if either of them were lost tonight she wasn’t sure what she would do.

_ And the ones who had loved her the most... _

Brienne opened her eyes and she looked towards Jaime and he looked towards her, catching each other's gaze at the same time. It was terrifying, the way he was looking at her, full of awe and amazement, and her heart was pounding hard against her chest but she would not look away from him. She cemented his face to memory the way he looked now. Alive, and looking at her in a way Brienne had only dreamed of a man looking at her like she was worthy of such a look, like he cared for her, like she was beautiful.

Like she was loved.

**  
The Freedmen**

Neither Missandei or Grey Worm made a sound as she helped him with his armor. He was well-versed in the practice by now, having done it half a hundred times on his own but she did not want him to leave just yet, and he wanted to savor her touch for as long as he could, not knowing if this was their last time together.

She tried her best to hide her tears as she pinned his dragon pin to his breast but it was in vain and a tear slowly fell down her cheek. He reached up and brushed it away, the kind gesture forcing more of them in its place.

“Do not cry,” he begged in his thick accent in his native tongue, in a soft tone only she was allowed to hear. “The Unsullied are strong. I  _ will _ return to you.”

“But what if you don’t?” Missandei whispered, more tears catching in her throat in Valyrian. “What if- what if you die for a people that hate us? What if you die just for the sake of a country that isn’t even ours? What if I have to be without you?”

“You will survive.” It wasn’t a sentimental statement but an order. She raised her head and the intensity in his brown eyes made her shudder. “You are strong, Missandei. You are the strongest person I know.”

She shook her head. “I don’t even know how to wield a dagger. I’m not strong enough to help you, I can’t help anyone.”

He lifted his hand and rested it over her heart. “You are strong in here,” he whispered. “Where it really matters. And if I fall you will survive, and you will go on, and you will live.”

The tears were falling faster and faster now. “But I don’t want to live without you…” A sob ripped past her lips and in half a second he had his arms wrapped around her, strong and warm and comforting. She clutched at the leather armor as tight as she could as she wept. 

“Say no,” she begged when she was able to speak again. “Stay inside. Please. Daenerys, she will allow you, I know she will.”

“I cannot,” he said at once. “They may not like it, but the Stark lands are my queen's kingdom and its people are hers. I will fight to defend the North and her people, no matter how they hate us. Nor will I sit out while other unsullied fight.”

Missandei knew that was the answer she would have but it still twisted her heart. He pressed a kiss to her thick curls and held her until the tears subsided. He didn’t let her go, not until another Unsullied came in and told him they were forming up. Even then it wasn’t until they reached the grounds where there was a mess of people running back and forth, to and fro, shouting orders at one another. 

“I don’t even know where I’m supposed to go,” Missandei said, looking around the busy yard.

“The first keep,” a voice behind them said. They turned and saw a young woman with long brown hair in ragged furs holding a young child in her arms. Her accent was clearly Northern but far thicker than those they had met in Winterfell. Gilly smiled at the Missandei, not a hint of a hatred or prejudice or fear or anything else the Northmen looked at her with. “I’m going there too,” she said with a sweet smile. “I’ll show you.”

“Thank you,” Missandei sighed. She hadn’t wanted to risk asking the wrong person and end up in the wrong place, but there was a kindness in this woman’s eyes she knew she could trust. 

“I’m Gilly.” She stroked the boy's hair. “This is Little Sam.”

“I’m Missandei of Naath, this is Greyworm. Are you from Winterfell?”

“I’m one of the Freefolk,” she answered. A Northmen passed them by, glaring daggers at the gathered group before he hurried on. Gilly gave them a sad smile and rested a hand on Missandei's shoulder. “IThey don’t much like me either…”

“There’s only two good Southerners who aren’t so full of shit it’s a wonder they haven’t been eaten alive by flies,” the large bearded redhead Tormund said with a scoff as he approached, resting a dragonglass ax on his shoulder. “Jon Snow, and my big woman.” He swelled with immense pride. “She’s a knight now.”

“I’ll have to offer my congratulations when I see her,” Missandei said with another smile. She only met a handful of what they called Wildings but every one of them had been friendly, every one of them kind, and none of them looked at her with icy stares of the quote on quote ‘more civilized’ North. “I pray she returns to you.”

“Aye she will. I know she will.” Tormund nodded towards Grey Worm. “And this steely faced son of a bitch is gonna return to you. Any man who can get their pecker cut off and find the will to live afterwards is tougher than any dead man.” 

Tormund let out a loud roar of a laugh, clapping Greyworm so hard in the shoulder he nearly stumbled. “COME ON!” he boomed, and a group of nearby Wildlings cheered. “LETS GO MAKE SOME DEAD FUCKERS EVEN MORE FUCKING DEAD!”

With another clap on the shoulder and a beaming smile on his face Tormund walked over to the company of waiting Wildlings.

“Just stay by Tormund all night, you’ll be fine,” Gilly said with a chuckle. Missandei tried to smile but she could barely find it in her to grimace. The wildling girl smiled at the couple before she took a few steps back to give them some privacy. 

“Grey Worm,” she began softly, barely able to speak a single word before he took her in his arms and kissed her. It was fierce and in it he poured every emotion, even declaration of love, every feeling, and she gave back just as hungrily. 

When he was done he leaned his head against hers, both of them gasping for breath. “I will come back,” he whispered, burying his hand in her curls. She nodded desperately, believing him with every single solitary ounce of belief she had. With a steely determination in his eye, Grey Worm walked off to be with his men, head held high, spear gripped tight in his hand, and praying to every God he knew that he would see her again…


	11. The Long Night Part I

**Daenerys**

**That night she dreamt she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper’s rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent.**

**Daenerys III, A Storm of Swords**

The queen looked out over the battlefield stretched out before her, everyone and everyone motionless, noiseless, like a silent grave. Large bonfires were placed all along the battlements so the soldiers might be able to see what they were doing when the dead came for them. 

She saw her unsullied in their black leather and helms, the Northmen in their plain grey steel and the Knights of the Vale with their painted white falcon on pale blue armor with the Kingslayer in brilliant red and gold armor standing beside the newly made knight at the head of the company. Wildlings stood at the ready in odd mismatched assortments of skins and bits of leathers and the Night's Watch black uniform was dotted here and there amongst the freefolk. Her Dothraki sat atop their horses on the far edges of the field, wearing nothing but a shirt of tight woven grass under thick furs, curved dragonglass and useless steel scythe-swords in hand, Jorah standing at the front of the column.

Rage was not near enough a word to describe what consumed her when Arya told them both what Sansa did. She wanted to kill her and if it wouldn’t lead to war she would have. Daenerys would have settled for crippling Sansa’s people the same way she crippled hers instead, making sure that the redhead got the blame, and it was only Jon’s begging and reminding the queen that if she took out ¼ of the Northern army then all would be lost that stayed her hand. 

Then to make matters worse the Dothraki who hadn’t gotten a dragonglass weapon refused to stay with the women and children. They would have been shamed if they didn’t fight, called cowards by their brothers, their braids cut off not in defeat but shame. They would have rather died than face that humiliation. Daenerys was forced to single out the older Horse Lords, the weaker ones, those plagued with injury or illness, any of whom she would have dubbed a lost cause to give up their obsidian arakhs to their stronger brethren and make do with a useless steel sword. 

Despite her love for her first people, her first family, her first love; there was still a war to win, and Sansa had forced her hand into making sacrifices she prayed the Dothraki would understand. 

Daenerys ordered the smiths to cease their makings of the arakhs and go back to making swords. They were not near as good as an arakh, many of the horse masters had never even seen a straight edged blade before, but in the time it took to make one arakh a smith could make up to 20 swords. 15,000 unarmed Dothraki dwindled to a little more than 9,000 by the time they had to ride to the battlements but even still that was nine thousand of her people sent to slaughter all because a petty little girl wanted to play a game.

She tried her best to rid herself of the anger in her heart and vengeful thoughts in her mind. That would not help anyone. She needed to be focused and clear minded for what was to come in the coming hours.

There was a cold stillness in the air, less than a whisper, the quiet before the storm. As if they feared the slightest noise might hasten their enemy. Familiar footsteps echoed in the night and a moment later Jon stood beside her.

He peered out over the mass of people, surveying them all, looking at the men he had amassed for what could be the war to end all wars. 

“We’re going to live on,” he said, his voice low without taking his eyes off the armies. “We have to…”

“We will,” Daenerys agreed. They turned to look at eachother. “I can feel it, Jon Snow. My story does not end here.  _ Your  _ story does not end here.”

He let out a breath, gray and crisp and clear in the light of the torches before he turned back to the battlement. “Maybe. But what about theirs?”

Daenerys offered no answer and instead she just looked out over the mass of gathered people, all of whom had put aside their differences and prejudice and human squabbling and bloody histories for a single night. 

A low horn rang out loud in the silence and a moment later, “open the gate!” was shouted by a guard. The two of them looked at each other before they rushed to the eastern side of the castle where they heard the sound of the cry. A hundred or so men and women in blood-red robes, their cowls covering their faces, stood outside the walls of Winterfell. The woman leading them looked up at the wall where Jon and Daenerys stood, and she felt the dark haired man stiffen beside her as her hood fell away. 

“Jon Snow!” Melisandre called out, her voice loud and clear as a bell from atop her black mare. “Daenerys Targaryen! The servants of the Lord of Light make our stand with you in the darkness!” 

Far below she saw Davos hurry down the stairs from his post, hand clutching the hilt of his sword and stood before the woman dressed in red. The queen couldn’t hear what they were saying but a moment later the older knight stood aside, and even from atop the wall she could see the shock on his weathered face as half the red priests made their way inside the grounds and the other half walked out to the men, Melisandre leading them. 

They stopped in front of her Dothraki. A long moment passed and the red woman lifted her hand to the heavens. The Dothraki glared at the priestess and their horses whinnied nervously, neither one of them trusting magic or those who practiced it as far as they could throw them, but those without dragonglass weapons raised their arakhs to the sky and she took hold of one of the hilts. A moment later, a brilliantly bright burning flame spread like wildfire and Daenerys opened her mouth to scream, thinking her men had been set aflame but when she heard the roars and the cheering she could have wept with relief.

It wasn’t the men that had been set on fire, but their useless steel. Her Dothraki would have a weapon in this fight after all. All was not lost.

She and Jon Snow had a moment to share a grin before another horn erupted, this time from the south, and again an order to open the gate was screamed. They raced along the ramparts until they reached the southern wall and there, outside the gates, stood four-thousand men waiting to fight. The head of the column was near as tall as the Mountain and just as strong, dressed in quartered rose and azure armor with a yellow sun and white crescent moon painted on the steel.

This time they hurried down the stairs to greet them. The Red Priestess seemed to where to go and knew whatever orders they were given by Melisandre and no one would question them, but these men were a regular army and would need some kind of guidance. 

“Your Grace,” the commander greeted with a bow towards Daenerys in a southern accent that even rivaled the great southern houses before turning to Jon and repeating the gesture. “My Lord. I am Selwyn of Tarth, the Evenstar and Lord of Evenfall Hall. I heard you might be having a little trouble up here in the North. I am sorry we’re late.”

His hair was pale yellow straw tied at the nape of his thick neck, and his eyes were deep pools of the most beautiful shade of blue Daenerys had ever seen on a man. In the dark of the night, one could almost be forgiven for thinking they were a deep brilliant purple rather than blue.

“There is neither the need or time for apologies,” Jon answered with a grateful smile. “How many of you are there?”

“A thousand mounted knights, three thousand archers.”

“Good. There’s quivers of arrows all along the top of the walls. Any ones not with dragonglass tips set on fire before you loose,” Jon said, relief flooding him like a wave crashing on the shore. “Your daughter is second in command of the left, you can find her at the front of the column. As for weapons-.”

“I’ve been made aware of that as well.” He drew a great-sword from his scabbard, dragonglass with a blue marble hilt and a white crescent moon on the pommel. “Apologies for helping ourselves to the dragonglass in the mines of Dragonstone, Your Grace. We didn’t think you would mind much, given the circumstances.”

“Not at all,” Daenerys smiled, relieved, in fact, that they would not be going into battle without.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Selwyn looked up towards the sky and smiled. “A clear night tonight but for a crescent moon… A good omen.” He turned to look at Daenerys again. “I hope you know, Your Grace, that when we win this, and this is all over, House Tarth will stand behind it’s kin in your fight for the throne.”

Before she could form an answer Selwyn bowed his head, offered his goodbyes, and he and his men took off to find the final place where they would make their stand.

“What did he mean by that?” Jon asked as he watched the knights and soldiers ride last. “Their kin?”

“I don’t know. I-...” A smile lit up her pale face. “Have you ever heard of Ser Duncan?”

“Every man alive has heard tales about him.”

“And have you heard the rumors of him and Daella Targaryen, daughter of King Maekar? And how their bastard daughter married into a minor House in the Stormlands?”

Realization flooded his expression and his eyes went wide. “You’re telling me that my sister's sworn shield has Targaryen blood?”

Daenerys grinned again and nodded. “Brienne’s great grandmother is my great aunt. She’s my cousin.”

Jon laughed, the first and only sound of the like that would be made tonight and the sound made let them both forget their impending doom if only for a second. “Oh Sansa will love that!”

Daenerys smirked. “That thought did cross my mind…”

Jon smiled and took hold of her hand before they made their way not up the wall again but to the clearing in their field where her dragons laid in waiting.

Drogon and Rhaegal stood tall and ready, bones of goats and sheep littered the ground, as if they knew they would need their full strength for tonight. There, in the darkness, they held each other and kissed their last goodbyes. 

“We will survive,” she promised him in a soft whisper as she held his face in her hands. “The dead will not destroy the living.”

“I wish I had your faith.”

She took hold of his hand and laid it over her heart. “If you cannot muster any then use mine for the both of us.”

Jon melted at her words and kissed her again, as fierce and as determined and as full of love as any kiss that existed before. A loud screaming roar far off in the distance chilled their hearts. They looked towards the blackness and fright passed over Daenerys’ face. Jon took her hand and pressed it over his heart, just as she had done to his.

“I may not have much faith, but I have courage,” he told her. “Use mine for the both of us.”

Daenerys swallowed hard and nodded before she forced her lungs to take a breath before she climbed atop Drogon. Jon went over to Rhaegal who closed his eyes and bowed his head, his growls almost a purr, as though he knew what the riders knew as well. Jon climbed on the dragons back and took hold of the spines. He turned towards Daenerys, gave a curt nod and with a whisper of a word and the beating of wings they were off.

  
  
  


**Jaime**

**Jaime groped under the water until his hand closed upon the hilt. Nothing can hurt me so long as I have a sword. As he raised the sword a finger of pale flame flickered at the point and crept up along the edge, stopping a hand's breath from the hilt. The fire took on the color of the steel itself so it burned with a silvery-blue light, and the gloom pulled back.**

**Jaime VI, A Storm of Swords**

“Father!”

Jaime turned and saw a large company of men marching to the front dressed in pink and blue armor, armed with dragonglass swords, with the tallest man he ever saw, near as tall as the Clegane brothers and almost as big, in the lead. Brienne rushed to meet him and the two threw their arms around one another. 

“I know the hour grows late but I’m here, as promised,” Selwyn said. “With a thousand of our men in the field and three thousand on the ramparts waiting to loose their arrows.”

“I knew you would be.” She smiled as they pulled away, the two of them standing face to face. Until right then Jaime never knew anyone could have made Brienne look small but she stood a whole head shorter than her father and her muscles were not nearly as thick.

In the light of the bonfires he saw that they shared the same wide lips, the same straw colored hair and their eyes were equally big and deep and blue, though in his mind, Brienne’s eyes were still far more beautiful than that of her fathers, or anyone’s really, Daenerys, Cersei and Sansa included.

The realization that attention had been drawn to her dawned on her and she blushed and bowed her head. It made him smile that she could still be embarrassed here at the end of the world. She led Selwyn to the front of the line where.

“Father this is Ser Jaime, Lord of Casterly Rock. The one I wrote to you about. Ser Jaime; this is my father Lord Selwyn of Tarth, the Evenstar and Lord of Evenfall Hall.” 

Jaime bowed his head. “My Lord,” he greeted cordially.

“Ser Jaime,” Selwyn grumbled in response, none too kindly. He looked as though he might have more to say but then his eyes flickered to his nervous daughter, and then to Jaime’s golden hand and he bit back words that were sure to offend and instead just took his place beside his daughter and stared out at the darkness, waiting silently. 

Unholy and dead screeches began to fill the air, low at first and growing louder and louder with every passing moment. Jaime gripped the hilt of his sword tight in his hand and swallowed hard as the approaching army grew nearer and nearer. He watched as the dead emerged from the darkness running as fast as they could towards the living, a solid massive wave that had no ending that he could see, unlike any army Jaime had ever faced. A Valesmen took off running towards the castle as they grew closer, stumbling and panicking as he ran.

“ **STAND YOUR GROUND!!!** ” Brienne screamed at the men, holding her sword aloft, the fear in her eyes washed away with a steely determination as the first wave flew as if the wind was helping them along. 

And then the dead were on them.

A solid wall with no end in sight slammed into them and Jaime had to fight to stay on his feet. He swung his sword every which way at the snarling screaming monsters, any thoughts of killing them flew from his mind. He was no longer trying to win. Now he was just trying to survive. All around him men were screaming and,dying en masse as they struggled to hold them off.

Killing them was not the problem, they were uncoordinated, with no weapons of their own, no discipline or strategy, but they were ruthless, and so so many… They ripped at the soldiers with their teeth and claws, animals in a man’s body that did not need food or drink or air, who knew no fear.

Jaime grunted as he slammed his sword into one's chest, turned and immediately lobbed another one's head off, and then cut another in half by way of the waist. He lobbed off arms and arms, slashed at throats, but for every one of the monsters he killed it seemed like three more took their place.

Another wave was upon them, slamming into them and Jaimeyelled and groaned as he dug his heels into the ground to keep standing, keep slashing, keep fighting.

A sound rose above all the screeching and howling and dying. A scream. One he knew well, one that had haunted his nightmares since the night he lost his hand. He whipped around just in time to see the mass of dead slam into Brienne. She was overwhelmed, and then she was gone. 

Jaime sprinted to her, following the sounds of her ear shattering screams. She was on the ground, fighting the dead man on top of her, arms pinned so she couldn’t raise Oathkeeper. Jaime stabbed the man in the back and hoisted him off her, throwing him back in the mess of dead. He grabbed her by the arm and hoisted her to her feet, and she wasted no time even to steady herself before she was fighting again, Oathkeeper a gray blur in her well practiced hands, grunting and screaming with every blow she landed.

Jaime looked around. He watched Podrick hold his own against a dead man who seemed more bones than flesh and then he saw, heads above the rest of the soldiers, Selwyn, taking down two or three with each swing of his great sword.

Icy hands gripped his shoulder, pulling him back, but before he could fall Brienne was there, cutting the dead man in half with a single swing of her sword. Jaime forced himself to focus as he fought and swung and screamed. Sweat poured from his brow and he never felt as cold or as worn out as he did, but they never stopped, they never ever stopped… Another wave was rushing towards them; even more than the first two. His men were weary, they could not handle another assault so quickly. He saw the center begin to falter and he followed in their stead.

“FALL BACK!” he bellowed as loud as he could to the soldiers. “FALL BACK TO THE WALLS!” 

“FALL BACK!” Brienne screamed, echoing his cry, her voice reaching the soldiers in the back of the formation. “RETREAT! RETREAT!”

The company turned and ran, striking at and killing anything that followed them to the keep. He heard the unsullied shouting to protect the retreat, and they did. The moment the last man fell back behind the second line the Unsullied created an unbreakable wall, solid, unyielding, in perfect step with one another as they took their turns to fight the dead. They ran to the gate closest to them and he and Brienne stood there, rushing them in and making sure only the living passed through. He saw her grab a hold of Podrick as he ran past.

“You alright?” she demanded of her squire, blonde hair poking out and sticking up every which way. He nodded frantically and she released him. “Good, get inside! Go, Podrick, go!”

He hurried in after the rest of the men. Jaime was relieved to see Selwyn coming up the rear, one of the last of their company able to get through before the dead overran the ones who had been too slow. The Evenstar raced over to Brienne, blue eyes wide with shock.

“These are no summer island pirates…” he panted, pushing his damp hair from his face. “You alright?” She nodded and he turned to Jaime. “Ser Jaime?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, get inside,” he urged.

He kissed the top of his daughters head before he hurried inside the walls. Brienne and Jaime looked at one another as the Unsullied who had been protecting them ran in, and when they could spare no more time the two knights ran in and ordered the gate shut, forcing themselves not to hear the panicked screams of those who they were forced to abandon to death and doom.

“Get to the walls!” Jaime roared, already running up the steps with Brienne on his heels. “Go, go!” Those who had been designated archers made a mad dash to get up the stairs and to their spots where their bows were out there beforehand, now standing beside Tarth bowman in dark pink armor. Others raced up the stairs and took their place with trembling sword in hand as they waited for the inevitabile dead that would climb over the walls.

Brienne stood at his side, sheathing Oathkeeper and picking up an ornate blue and pink bow with suns and crescent moons and star-bursts on the limbs, a gift from her father sent to Winterfell weeks earlier, that she placed there on the ramparts before the battle. 

“Archers!” he yelled out as he watched another wave if dead run towards the castle. “Nock! Draw! LOOSE!” 

A shower of arrows, obsidian and flaming alike, sailed through the air and over the walls. It didn’t matter where they aimed or where they hit, there was such a mass of them that nearly every arrow fell upon one. “Nock! he roared. “Draw! LOOSE!”

Against me again he gave the command, and again and again arrows flew overhead. He swallowed hard as he looked at the trenches. Why aren’t they lit? Everyone was behind the walls, what the hell was taking so long? The dead were pushing their way past the large wooden spikes, one getting lucky and landing a kill, others falling to those who stayed outside the walls but if more than one came at them....

Jaime glanced up at the sky, hoping to see either of the beasts swoop down and do their job but his face fell when he could barely even see beyond the towers of the castle. 

Daenerys couldn’t see the torch. She couldn’t see the signal.

“Get the trench lit!” he screamed at anyone, everyone. “She can’t see the signal! GET IT LIT!”

He saw one man hurrying out of the door and almost immediately a dead man leapt over the wooden trenches and devoured him. Another man tried a second later and he suffered the same fate.

Jaime closed his eyes, swallowing hard. If the whole of their army came crashing over the walls they were done for…

“Dovaogēdys!” a voice roared from the ground, drawing his attention. “Naejot membratas!”

Jaime watched from atop of the wall as the gates opened and a wall of Unsullied marched out, perfectly in step, perfectly in line, blocking and protecting something that would be coming through the gate.

Not something. Someone. 

A woman in a red cloak walked out, her face ethereal, her beauty terrifying, protected by the slave soldiers, killing every dead who raced through. She laid her hands on the wooden trench and Jaime waited, watching as the dead moved closer and closer. 

“She can’t light it,” Brienne breathed. “Something’s the matter, somethings wrong.”

“She will,” he muttered as he looked at the priestess -/ more and more dead men began to claw their way through the trench. “She has too…”

The bulk was screaming towards them now, as fast as anything he had ever seen. They were getting closer and closer, any minute now and they would run over the trench as though it were a toothpick waiting to be broken and then all would be lost.

He and Brienne looked at one another one last time, both of them with red faced with exertion despite the biting cold. Jaime kept his eyes on her as more and more dead men clambered over the trenches. If hers was the last face he would ever see before death took him, he would meet the Seven with a smile.

And then the flames were screaming, exploding, billowing as they wrapped themselves around the trenches, surrounding Winterfell in a circle of fire. The red woman did it. The trenches were lit. 

The dead that had been trying to climb through the torches were lit aflame and their unholy screams filled the air. The rest of the army stood at an absolute standstill away from the flames, and since his first swing of the sword Jaime took a moment to breathe and relax.

A deafening roar came from the sky, and a moment later the great black beast swooped down. Daenerys bathed the dead in dragon fire, back and forth, back and forth, and the dying screams of the dead men and music of dragons filled the air. 

“Seven save us!” Brienne gasped, clutching his arm and gaping up at the sky. He followed her and he gasped, taking a step back as though that might have helped.

The sky grew a blood red and deathly black. Red Priests and Priestesses stood atop the tallest towers of Winterfell, cloaks billowing in the wind as they screamed their chants to their God, calling Him and his might down to offer aid. The crimson clouds cracked and boomed and then it began to rain what looked like thick wet blood.

Not blood, Jaime realized as he watched the drops fall on the dead and engulf them in flames the moment they touched, but fire. The sky was raining fire. 

Flaming barrels of dragonglass joined them, and soon the air was choked in ash and flames and dragon fire and hell and all the things that lived in his nightmare. Jaime closed his eyes for a moment before he looked to Brienne who gave him a curt nod before she lit another arrow. He took a deep breath and turned back to the battlefield.

“Nock!” he cried to the archers again. “Draw! LOOSE!!!”

**Sansa**

**Sansa knew most of the hymns, and followed along on those she did not know as best she could. She sang along with grizzled old serving men and anxious young wives, with serving girls and soldiers, cooks and falconers, knights and knaves, squires and spit boys and nursing mothers. She sang with those inside the castle walls and those without, sang with all the city. She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb, for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away at the Wall. She sang for her mother and her father, for her grandfather Lord Hoster and her uncle Edmure Tully, for her friend Jeyne Poole, for old drunken King Robert, for Septa Mordane and Ser Dontos and Jory Cassel and Maester Luwin, for all the brave knights and soldiers who would die today, and for the children and the wives who would mourn them, and finally, toward the end, she even sang for Tyrion the Imp and for the Hound.**

**Sansa V, A Clash of Kings**

Sans leaned back against the stone wall, digging her finger into the tip of the dragonglass dagger Arya gave her. 

“I hate what you did, but you’re still my sister,” the smaller girl said sternly, pushing the dagger into her hand before she wrapped her in a tight hug. “Stay safe,” she ordered her when they let go of eachother.

Sansa started to head towards the First Keep when Arya grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her back, a steely look in her grey eyes. “And protect others if you can, Sansa,” she said sharply. “Whoever they fight for.”

That was the last words she heard from her family before she made her way into the crowded tower where the rest of the useless women were hiding. She hadn’t seen Jon, not since he confronted her about what she did to the Dothraki. Their last conversation would be a hateful, angry one. Would he even weep for her if she perished tonight? She would cry for him, but would he shed tears for his sister? Would the queen even allow him tears for his family?

She shook away the nagging thoughts. She could not think like that. She would not think like that. Sansa looked around the floor of the tower at those sitting here with her. Everyone from the Lady of Winterfell to the whores of Wintertown, Wildling and Dothraki wives, old crones and babes still at their mothers' breasts were crowded around, silent and still. The occasional cough or sniffle, and a mother trying to calm a fussy newborn was all that was heard.

Until Tyrion began to speak, staring out the window at the heavy wooden door bolted and locked. “If we were up there,” he mused. “We might see something that everyone else is missing… Something that makes a difference.” Varys scoffed and Tyrion turned to glare at the eunuch. “What?” he demanded. “Remember the Battle at the Blackwater? I brought us through the mud gate.”

“And nearly got your face cut in half,” he reminded him.

“And it made a difference!” He turned back to the door, as though he could will himself on the battlefield with sheer desire alone. “If I was out there right now-.”

“You’d die,” she said sharper than she meant too. He turned to look at her, his scared face falling when he was forced to concede that she was right. “There’s nothing we can do,” she added more gently.

“I think you’d be surprised at the lengths I’d go to avoid joining the Army of the Dead,” he said as he took a seat opposite her. “I can think of no less organization less suited to my talents.”

A flicker of a smile lit up her lips. “Witty remarks won’t make a difference. It’s why we’re down here, none of us can do anything. We can’t fight, we can’t shoot a bow, we can’t be strong…” He looked as though she had insulted his mother and Sansa shrugged. “What? It’s the truth. The most heroic thing we can do now is look the truth in the face and stay out of everyone’s way.” 

“We should have stayed married,” he said, almost amused. “Our children’s dry wit and adoration of the truth would have been most admirable.”

“You were the best of them.”

Tyrion’s eyes went wide in faux shock. “What a  _ terrifying  _ thought!”

Another chuckle rose from her lips before her smile went from one of amusement to sad understanding. “It wouldn’t work between us.”

“Why not?” he asked her. She ignored the note of longing in his voice, coupled with something bitter. 

“The dragon queen.” He sighed and raised his head to the ceiling. “Your divided loyalties would become a problem.”

“Yes,” Missandei said as she rose from her seat. “Without the dragon queen they’d be no problem at all. And all of you would be dead.”

“I don’t believe I was talking to you,” Sansa snapped. “I don’t know how it is in Essos but here in the North jumping into someone’s conversation uninvited is considered rude. Also in case you’ve forgotten it was because of Daenerys that the wall came down in the first place. They would still be beyond the wall if it wasn’t for her.”

“She went beyond the wall to save your brother,” the adviser said hotly. 

“And she left a dragon for the Night King in her wake. How is that helpful?”

Missandei glared at the Sansa who shot a fierce look right back.

“Ya know I know a story about two girls couldn’t get along.”

“No one wants to hear your stories right now, Nan,” Sansa signed, turning to the ancient woman. How the old nursemaid had survived a takeover of Winterfell from both the Ironborn and the Bolton’s was well beyond the red-heads' understanding. 

“I know a story about a girl who didn’t want to listen to stories as well, Little Lady,” Nan said in her thick Northern accent as she fiddled with a crochet needle, as though it were any other day and not the day that an apocalyptic hell was crashing down upon them. 

“Do you have any stories about enemies who’ve come to take our kingdom,” she spat with a sour look to Missandei who flared right back.

“Oh aye. When the land belonged to the Children and the First Men came and cut their trees down, root and stem, and took their land for their own. It took hundreds of years of bloodshed for them to realize they needed to work together to fight their common enemy.”

Sansa swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean-.”

“Or maybe you’d like to hear the story of how Lord Commander Stark of the Nights Watch became the Nightking and turned against the living?” She hooked another piece of yarn around her needles and purses her thin dry lips. “Perhaps the story of how Theon Stark allied with the Bolton’s, to fight against the Ironborn? A heroic allyship that was, one that was never to be torn apart.”

“Alright, Nan, stop.”

“I could tell you stories of the war between the Starks and the Valesmen. Hundreds of years it lasted, a hundred generations of bloodshed between the two feuding lands. They would hate each other until the end of eternity they both swore… Or would you like to hear about the thousands of years of fighting between the Northmen and the Wildlings? They cursed each other’s children and stole each other's wives, vowing never to draw swords together.”

“I get it, Nan!”

The old woman looked up from her knitting and blinked her half-blind milky eyes, feigning innocence. “Get what, Little Lady?”

She saw Missandei smile at the old woman and Sansa rolled her eyes and flopped back against the wall as Nan returned to her peaceful knitting. Silence returned to the keep that lasted for a long while until a scream floated up from the ground, and then another. Snarls and cries and all manners of dead screeches and sounds followed. The women began to cry and panic, and Sansa looked towards Tyrion who appeared just as loss as her.

Crashes and booming roars shook the tower, and a dragon shrieked so loudly they had to cover their ears. Hellish blue fire streaked across the window off in the distance.

One woman screamed that they weren’t safe here, that they had to leave or everyone would be slaughtered. She stood up in a panicked flurry and Sansa rose with her, holding her hands up in surrender as she hurried to the door as others began to bang on it, crying to be let out.

“Wait, stop, please!” Sansa begged the panicking women. Sansa knew if they left the tower then they would be nothing but liabilities at best or unarmed meat for the Nightking at worst. “We’re safe here! If you leave you’ll die!”

Another scream and a dragon's roar and panic mounted again. “All of the men!” Sansa yelled above the nervous cries. “They’re out fighting to protect us! Brave fearless knights, strong heroic Northmen, my brother!” Sansa swallowed hard as her eyes flickered to Missandei who was holding a fearful Gilly in her arms. “The queen and all her soldiers,” Sansa said, turning back to the crowd, “they’re all fighting for us! They will not let anything happen to us! I swear it!” 

Sansa looked around the crowded room at all the panicked faces who were all looking to the Lady of Winterfell to help them, to protect them, to be their strength. That was her job. That was what her mother told her she must do as the lady of her husband's keep one day, the noble Highborn and the suffering lowborn would take refuge and look to the Lady for guidance . The battleground and the soldiers would belong to him, Catelyn told her, but the castle and the wives are hers. 

She took a deep breath and clasped her hands in front of her. “How about a hymn?” she asked, looking around the room. No one answered so she took a deep breath and began to sing the first song that came to mind, the one she led another group of frightened women in when they were under siege a lifetime ago.

“ _ Gentle Mother, font of mercy _ ,” she began as soothing as she could make her frightened voice, looking around the room. These were mostly Northern women, they would not know a prayer for the Seven, but the Old Gods had no hymns. “ _ Save our sons from war, we pray. Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day.” _

The panic seemed to slowly melt from their faces. Even if they did not believe in the Mother they looked comforted at the worlds at least. Sansa swallowed hard but before she could sing another verse Tyrion’s voice rang out, shaking slightly.

“ _ Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray.”  _ The dwarf caught Sansa’s eye and gave her an encouraging smile that she returned before they turned back to the women, both of their voices rising above the sounds of war raging outside. “ _ Soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way…” _

**Jon**

**They are all gone. They have abandoned me.**

**Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. "Snow," an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again.**

**Jon XII A Dance With Dragons**

The fiery trench looked like a great winding snake of fire around the walls of Winterfell. In the distance the Godswood stood as a stark contradiction to the rest of the gray keep but like the rest of the castle it was covered in a white. He could not see Bran, but he knew he was there with the Ironborn protecting him. 

He glanced over his shoulder at the First Keep where Sansa was currently staying with the rest of the women and children. He prayed to the Old Gods and the New she would live through the night. She angered him beyond words with her stint with the Dothraki but lost enough siblings, he could not lose another. 

Jon did not want to mourn and weep again.

The moment the trench was lit Daenerys and Drogon raced towards the dead men and began to burn them alm, back and forth, back and forth she flew. The red priests and priestesses rained fire down from the heavens onto the dead, archers fired flaming arrows and barrels of flaming dragonglass flew through the air, crashing and burning and destroying everything it touched. It was almost beautiful, in an odd sort of way, the red flames against the wintry sky. 

But as quick as the red flames came, so did the blue.

They were searing cold, not hot, but somehow the fire tearing from the dead dragon's throat burned just as much, and it destroyed a tower of Winterfell with a single shriek. And then, he turned on the First Keep where the women and children were being held.

Where Sansa was being held.

Jon urged Rhaegal left, slamming into the Nightking’s dragon just as a streak of blue flames went shooting by the tower. The dragons roared and screamed and hissed as they flew up, up, up into the sky, past the clouds and the cold. 

Jon cried out as he held on as tight as he could while Rhaegal and Viserion fought, clawing at each other, snapping at each other's throat, blue and crimson flames bouncing off the other. He saw the Night King grab a long ice spear, the kind that killed the one he rode now, and Jon grunted as he jerked his dragon to the right, and Rhaegal screamed his protests but did what his rider commanded anyhow, narrowly missing a spear of ice through his heart.

Viserion wasted no time in latching onto him again, tangling himself up with his brother as they bit and clawed and ripped. His armor was like tenfold shields, his teeth swords, his claws spears, the shock of his tail a thunderbolt, his wings a hurricane, and his breath death. He twisted his long neck around, snapping his teeth at Jon once, twice, three times, and each time Jon narrowly dodged the sharp teeth and the icy blue fire. 

In one last burst of strength Rheagal screamed and managed to get above the great blue beast, using his claws to grab hold of his neck, rolling him over and over again and again until he pushed them down as hard as he could, and sent them both tumbling through the air. A moment later Rheagal was falling as well, and Jon with him. The cold winter winds whipped at his face and it was everything he could to just hang on much less control the hurrying descent. The ground rose up fast to meet them and Jon was thrown from its back as Rheagal sank to the ground, too weak to even stand much less take to the air to fly again, and the sorrowful growl that crept from his throat proved he knew it. Jon petted the green scales beast bleeding snout before he drew his sword and ran to the Godswood, slipping through a small hole in the wall that Arya told him about when she was just a girl, a secret way for her to escape the castle and get into mischief in the woods around them that she only ever shared with Jon.

He raced through the thick woods, and in the distance Drogon screamed, and he saw a jet of flames shooting from his throat, as hot and as large as he had ever used before. Jon didn’t stop to see if it ended him or not. He knew the Night King lived. He could feel it in his brain, in his heart, in his soul… They were connected, the two of them. He did not know how he would kill him but he would need to find a way. He did not know why the Gods chose him as their weapon but he was. Jon Snow would need to be the one to end the Long Night. 

Jon Snow would end it. By all the Gods he would, or he would die trying.

He saw the Heart Tree in the distance and his quickened his pace, announcing his arrival with a cry of “Bran!” so that the Ironborn did not shoot.

“What’s happened?!” Theon demanded, not taking his space from the eerily calm boys side. “I thought you were flying?”

“I fell but I’m fine! Bean!” He kneeled in front of his brother and took his hands in his. Bran slowly turned to face him, with no expression, no emotion, no anything. Jon swallowed hard as he reached up and cupped his face, as though he was giving the honor of touching the Old Gods themselves. “Help me,” he whispered. “Show me how to defeat this long night…”

Brown didn’t answer. Instead he just looked up at the black dragon in the sky before his eyes went a queer white and Jon leapt back from him. In the distance he heard Drogon scream, and when he turned to look the great black beast was streaming towards the Godswood as fast as an arrow from a bow, its dark eyes a blinding white.

“Bran, slow him down!” he yelled when he saw Daenerys struggle to hold on. “Bran, slow down, she’s going to fall! She needs to stay in the air!” 

The warged dragon twisted himself around, a black blur against the midnight sky right above them. “BRAN STOP, SHE’S GOING TO FALL!”

The three eyed raven didn’t listen, nor did he move or blink. Jon grabbed at his furs but the moment he did a flock of ravens emerged from the trees, their beaks and feet scratching and pecking Jon not hard, but enough that he had to let go of the boy, swatting mercilessly at the birds to get them to leave him alone. Through the mess of black feathers Jon watched in shock and horror as he saw Daenerys fall from the sky…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering how Brienne and Dany are related, they’re third cousins
> 
> Duncan/Daella Targ (sister of Danys great grandfather)  
>  \/   
>  Targ Daughter/Tarth Son  
>  \/  
>  Selwyn  
>  \/  
>  Brienne


	12. The Long Night Part II

**Jon**

Just as sudden as the birds came they flew back into the White Tree and he was free again. Jon sprinted as fast as he ever had before, holding out his arms and leaping forward the last few feet, just barely catching Daenerys in his arms. The momentum of her fall sent them both to the ground, and Jon choked back a scream when he heard a hard _THUNK_ where her head hit the ground.

The Ironborn were yelling, Drogon was screaming and thrashing as though chained in irons but he did not loose his fire on them and instead flew back to the wall of dead behind the trenches burning as he went, and in the center of it all sat Bran, unmoving, a strange red and black tint clouding the white of his eyes.

Her violet eyes were closed, and her body laid limp in his arms. “No,” he begged as he held her, choking back a scream. “No, you can’t leave me! Not now! Daenerys, please!” A wretched sob ripped past his lips as he cradled her closer, pulling her body up so he could press his face into her smooth silver hair.

And then he heard it. A moan. Low, and soft and sweet. It was the most beautiful thing he ever heard. 

“Daenerys,” he breathed, hardly able to believe she was here with him, alive as her eyes fluttered open.

“I’ve never… I’ve never fallen before,” she muttered, eyes unfocused and her speech half slurred. “I couldn’t control him, I couldn’t-...Drogon… Where’s Drogon, where is my son?”

“It’s alright now,” he whispered. “You’re alright.” 

“Where is my dragon?”

“He’s fighting.” Jon would explain later what had happened and why, after he considered executing his brother for treason. “You’re safe, he’s safe, I promise you.”

Jon cradled her in his arms and stood. Just as he did a loud horrible screech and scream erupted from the front gate and then the clawing and the roars of the dead man came. 

They had broken through the trench. 

He swallowed hard as he ran through the Godswood, praying they wouldn’t reach them by the time they arrived at the Guards Barracks where the healers and Maesters were practicing their healing in the center of the keep. Jon had to make a choice when he chose its location. Waste time with the injured to put it in a more secure area away from all the fighting, or put it close to the battlements and risk it being overrun.

He thought it was a good choice at the time, a few minutes may be the difference between life and death but it would also mean a few more minutes for the soldiers protecting it to move the injured to safety. But now, with Daenerys in his arms, he wished he had placed it right besides the Godswood. 

All around him soldiers were running to the walls, archers loosed their arrows at will, and the brave men manning the trebuchets behind the trenches fired the barrels right up until the moment they were overrun. He heard Jaime Lannister’s voice from the front gate ordering the buckets of oil lit and poured over the walls. A moment later the unholy screams of the dead fying again filled the air.

Jon raced through Winterfell and ignored it all, not seeing anything but the silver haired woman in his arms, his mind full of nothing else but a determination to get to the medical hall. He didn’t see the large mass racing on the same path until it slammed into him and sent the three of them hurtling to the ground. 

“Shit!” he heard Gendry hiss. “Shit, I’m sorry! Jon, they’re coming over the walls, they-!”

“It’s fine!” Jon groaned as he climbed unsteadily to his feet. “You’re faster than me,” he said, drawing his sword. “Get her to the Maesters.”

Gendry nodded, and went to pick the queen up but the moment he touched her he hissed in pain, clutching at his hand.

“What the hell is going on?!” the Smith demanded, taking a step back from the woman. “She’s burning!”

Jon furrowed his brow. “Who is? What are you talking about?”

“Her!”

He stormed over and looked at his hand, furrowing his brow when he saw the steam rising from his hand where the skin was an ugly bright burning red. He looked at Daenerys and saw thick steam rising out from under her. Jon pushed her to her side and saw a thick wet river of blood burning away her gown and melting the snows beneath her, turning the blanket of white to steam and water. Jon brushed his fingers against the blood, and cried out as it burned him, yanking back his hand and shoving it into the snows, the searing hot blood eating through his glove with just the single small touch.

The blood was hot enough to melt iron, to reduce the mightiest keep to embers, to burn the flesh off a man’s bones. He reached out with reluctant fingers and traced her cheek, which was no warmer than usual.

“It’s not her,” Jon told Gendry, watching as the blood burned away her furs where it was streaming down. “It’s her blood. Somethings happened to her blood.”

The black haired boys eyes went wide. He gawked at her and swallowed hard. “King’s blood,” he whispered to himself. He snapped his head up to look at Jon. “She has king's blood!”

“What?”

“I- the red woman, she took my blood, she said it was somehow magic because it was king’s blood!” he explained feverishly. He looked down at Daenerys, blue eyes shining in excitement. “If the blood of a bastard son who never once titled himself a ruler can destroy kings what do you think _her_ blood can do?”

 _The sword_ , Brans voice rang in his mind suddenly. His and a thousand other Three Eyed Ravens, men, women, children, in a hundred different tongues were crying out to him. _The sword. Unite or die._

Jon swallowed hard as he looked at Daenerys, at the burning blood dripping down her back and touched the broad side of Longclaw to the blood. It smoked and steamed and hissed and the steel grew red hot in his hand but it wasn’t enough. He could not win with just hers.

 _Unite or die_ , the voices were calling to him again. _Unite or die._

Jon looked towards Gendry, at the son of the stag who hated dragons and their spawn, who started the man’s wars fray they all found themselves in now.

“Give me your hand.” Without waiting for an answer Jon pulled out his dagger and cut a shallow line into Gendry’s palm. He held it over the sword and a drop, one single drop, fell from the cut and landed on the steel, running down the center of the sword and joining Daenerys’. 

The sword erupted into blood red flames, as magnificent a light that the world had ever seen, the heat of it making the world shimmer. Jon swallowed hard as he stood, flaming sword in hand. “Take her to the Maesters,” Jon said without taking his eyes from the sword. “She should be fine now.”

She was, and without another word Gendry scooped up the woman from the ground and raced to the healers station.

Shadows of dragons and stags, direwolves and lions and all other manner of beasts, men and women committing the act of love, soldiers fighting to the death, all of them danced on the edges of the flames. This was humanity’s fire, the fire all the Gods came together to give their worshippers to use against the darkness, and they chose Jon to wield it.

A dark thick fog blanketed the Godswood and spread throughout the keep, far colder than anything Jon ever felt before, colder than death itself. He swallowed his fear, tightened the grip on the hilt and walked back to the Godswood to make the living's final stand…

**Jaime**

There were too many. 

Far too many. 

They were climbing up the walls as though they were spiders rather than men. Jaime was fighting, swinging his sword, pushing the dead back down the wall, and trying to end those who made it to the ramparts but they were a never ending mass of dead men. The buckets of flaming oil, the arrows, the barrels of dragonglass flung from the trebuchets, even the dragon fire seemed to do nothing to stop them.

He grunted and cried out as three of them pinned him to the wall. They were biting at him, clawing at him, pressing so hard up against him that he felt the wall crack. He tried to push them away but there were so many of them he may as well have tried to move a mountain.

And then he saw her. 

Flying across the top of the wall, making them crash to the ground below as she fought to get to him. Brienne screamed as she swung Oathkeeper, yanking the dead away from Jaime and yanking him away from the edge of the wall. Their swords swung in mirror images, moving and killing as one, their movements one in the same. When they turned back to one another Jaime saw another wave rushing towards Brienne, reaching out for her.

“LOOK OUT!” he screamed, thrusting his sword over her shoulder just as she did the same to Jaime, saving the other from those who tried to attack from behind. They didn’t leave eachother again. They stayed fighting side by side, moving as one body, one soul, protecting each other, saving each other but it was unyielding, unending, a constant stream of dead men trying to kill them. 

Until there wasn’t. 

With a loud yell Jaime shoved a dead man over the walls and for half a second he allowed himself to breathe until he noticed his soldiers, those he protected and lead, who were slain in battle, open their eyes, now cold pale icy blue and stood unseeing, fighting for the army of the dead.

Jaime swallowed as he clutched the hilt of his sword tighter and tears pricked at his eyes. The dead were still steaming over the walls and now everyone they slayed would be fighting against them too. It was too much. It was too much. How could they hope to beat an enemy who with everyone of theirs they killed came back as an enemy?

Brienne stood by his side, blood and sweat and mud covering her face and caking the pale blonde of her hair so much that not a single strand showed any yellow, gasping for breath as she looked at the new dead men. 

Jaime had just enough time to raise his sword before they were on them. Over and over, swinging and swinging, dead man after dead man, he fought for himself, for Westeros, for the living, for Brienne. Another wave was coming over the walls now and he had to choke back a sob. Nearly all of the men fighting with them had turned to corpses or abandoned the wall, Brienne was breathing harder then he’d ever seen and his sword grew heavier with every blow, and Jaime knew he was not swinging it as quickly as he'd done earlier, nor raising it as high. 

When he had half a moment to breathe he looked around the ramparts and swallowed hard. They would be killed if they stayed here. They had lost the wall and if it didn’t collapse from the weight of the dead then they would be overwhelmed by the enemy. He found Brienne standing besides Podrick and grabbed hold of her shoulder.

“We need to leave.”

Her eyes were wide, her face stark white. “We- we swore-...” she breathed, voice trembling. “We have to fight-...”

“We’ll die if we stay here. We need to find a new position.”

“The- the wall-.”

“Is lost. We need to go, Brienne.” She shook her head and Jaime took her by the shoulders. “We need to leave,” he said slowly, making sure she understood every word. 

“My Lady,” Podrick said, surprisingly firm. “You can’t protect Sansa if you’re dead.”

That seemed to hit her hard and she licked her lips before she nodded.

“My father?” She looked around the battlefield for the tall man. “Where is he? Where’s my father?”

“I don’t know.” Tears filled her eyes and he took her by the shoulders again. More of the dead were making their way up the wall. “I’m sure he’s fine, but we need to leave.” 

“No.”

“He would want you to leave… Brienne!”

“I won’t abandon him!”

“I saw him.” They turned towards the young squire. “I saw him, he was chased into the keep.”

Her big blue eyes were pleading. “Really?”

Podrick nodded. “I swear it, My Lady.”

Jaime prayed it wasn’t just a lie. 

Then a sudden stillness came over the world, and a thick dark fog covered the ground and Jaime shuddered and froze. The dead too seemed to stop climbing the walls and instead were falling over themselves to clear a path for someone, or something coming through the fray. The fire raining from the sky, the flaming arrows, none of it giving them pause. Nine men made of pale blue ice rather than flesh and armored in black steel with weapons of black ice in their gnarled twisted hands. At the head of the column stood a man with a crown of icy thorns atop his head. He stopped feet from the front gate and slowly looked up, up, up until his pale blue icy eyes met Jaime’s wide terrified ones.

And then he smiled

“We need to leave,” Jaime whispered, voice trembling in fewr, taking a step back but the queer blue eyes seemed to follow him. The dead were beginning to climb the walls again only this time Jaime knew it wasn’t just to attack whoever they could find but this man, this _thing_ , wanted his soldiers to destroy him, and to destroy the tall woman beside him almost as much as he wanted to destroy Stark’s Bastard and the boy Jaime had pushed from the tower. From the look on Brienne’s face he knew she felt it too. “We need to leave! We need to leave NOW!”

This time she needed no encouragement. The three of them wasted no time in running along the ramparts to the door to the keep, the dead racing after them. They managed to get the door shut but a moment later they broke though as though it was made of parchment paper rather than heavy oak. They were screaming and crying and clawing as they trampled each other in their chase. His legs pumped and his lungs burned as he ran, Brienne at his side and Podrick falling behind them. If they faltered for ever a moment they were dead.

He could hear another hoard of them coming from another passage way and Jaime quickly changed course to run down another hallway, until he heard her scream.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

Jaime whipped back around and saw Podrick facing the hallway where the two groups of dead would meet, sword drawn. “PODRICK, COME ON!”

“No, My Lady!” he growled, hands clutching the hilt of his sword so tight his knuckles were white but there was no fear in his eyes, just determination. “A squire protects his knight, until the end! You two go, I’ll hold them off!”

They were getting closer and they were wasting time.

Brienne grabbed his shoulder but he threw it off. “Podrick, we need to leave!”

“You’re the better fighter, My Lady, both of you are! You’ll be of more help to the living then I can ever hope to be!” Jaime saw the shadows of the dead rounding the corner. “Go, now!”

There would be no convincing him the lion saw. Without a word Jaime grabbed hold of her hand and began to run. She was strong, and her feet held fast but the sudden jerkiness of the movement made her stumble away from him, just as the dead came. 

“PODRICK!” she screamed as Jaime dragged her away, watching as he held onto the edges doorway, blocking the dead from following the knights, screaming as the dead clawed and savaged his body, but he never faltered, never let go, never forgot his duties of squire.

Jaime dragged her into the first open door he saw and slammed the door shut, and immediately began to bar the door with desks and chairs, beams of wood, whatever one hand could carry. Brienne was crying, and tears were racing down her cheeks but she helped him bar the door as best she could. He could hear the dead racing down the hallway, heard them pass them by.

“The Lord sent him to serve you for a purpose,” a cool calm voice said from behind them. They both turned to look and saw in the shadows a woman cloaked all in red. “He achieved that purpose.” She walked closer to them, as though she was floating on air. “He brought the two of you together for a purpose as well. To fulfill your dreams, and destinies.”

“What do you mean?” Jaime asked, panting. “Who are you?”

“Her name is Melisandre,” Brienne spat through her tears. “She’s the witch that killed Renly.”

“And now I am here, with you, at the end of the world.” She turned towards Jaime. The ruby at her throat glowed a dangerous deadly blood red. “You know of what I speak, Ser Jaime. A dark room filled with water and dead surrounding you. Twin swords burning silvery blue in the darkness.”

Jaime swallowed hard and took a step back from her. “No… no, that was just a dream… A dream, it didn’t mean anything.”

“What are you talking about?” Brienne asked, looking between the two of them, wiping away her tears. “Jaime, we can’t trust her!”

“Lightbringer was the sword that belonged to the prince who was promised,” Melisandre continued as though she hadn’t spoken, coming closer and closer with each step. “It was his protector, his light in the darkness,”

A finger of pale flame flickered at the points of Widows Wail and Oathkeeper both, and crept up along the edge, stopping a hand's breadth from the hilt. The flames burned a silvery blue, giving a pale light in the darkness.

“Keep your oath, Jaime Lannister,” Melisandre said, and Jaime tore his eyes away from the cool silvery-blue light of the sword to look at the red witch. “Keep the oath you made to keep his son safe.”

“I swore no oath to Ned Stark.”

She didn’t answer his protests. Instead when she spoke again, her voice sounded shockingly like his sisters, the same voice from his dream from years and years before.

“The flames will burn so long as you live," he heard Cersei call from the witches mouth as he and Brienne turned to face the door, readying themselves to enter the fray again. "When they die… so must you…”

**Sansa**

“The fires burned for forty days and forty nights! As bright a flame as any the North did ever see!” 

The group of women and children all gathered around Nan, who had set aside her crochet needles, what was a good story without a good set of hands to accompany it, she would often say. Many of the Northerners knew the tales of Brandon the Shipwright and his son Brandon the Burner well over, but the Dothraki and the Wildlings hadn’t and even Missandei sat enthralled as the old woman weaved her tale of the boy and his father. Sansa leaned against the stone, half listening to the nursemaid and half concentrating on the screams and cries and crashes Nan was trying to block out. 

“The lake was washed in flame! Captains and sailors wept as they watched their livelihoods burn, but there is no reasoning with the grief of a mourning son! And then...” Nan said, her voice going low and eerie, “then my little lords and ladies, when the fleet was gone, it’s ashes spread to the wind… came the Kraken for the first time. For they knew the wolf could no longer swim…”

“She does have a flair for the dramatics,” Tyrion whispered besides Sansa who merely chuckled. 

“This Brandon,” a Dothraki woman interrupted the storyteller as she started to tell the story of the first time the Ironborn attacked the North. “He know nothing. He is mad his father died, so he burn the things his father built? When my father die I do not slaughter his horse.”

“He didn’t want to be reminded of the pain,” Missandei said softly. “He loved his father. Seeing the ships would only remind Brandon of the pain of losing the shipwright and he couldn’t handle that.”

“He is weak then.”

“Brandon wasn’t weak,” Sansa argued, protective of her ancestors' choices. “He just…” She bowed her head and pulled at a loose thread dangling at her dress. “People deal with grief differently,” the redhead muttered. “Sometimes people like to hold onto things that remind them of the people they lost, other times they like to burn them.”

The Dothraki rolled her eyes but said nothing more about the actions of Brandon the Burner, and turned her attention back to Nan. 

As she began the tale of how the Ironborn sailed up the coast to the North there was a loud rattling of the door, and the tower shook. Sansa swallowed hard as she looked at Tyrion who looked as nervous as she did. The dead has broken through the gate and climbed over the walls, they knew it, they could hear it. That was when Nan had begun her stories, to try to distract them after Sansa ran out of hymns, but that was the first time their haven was jostled. 

“We have guards,” Sansa reminded the women as they began to panic again. They won’t let them breach the door, they won’t let them through the inner gates. They-”

“They’re coming from the crypts!” a woman looking out the window screamed. “They’re climbing the walls of the tower!”

Sansa’s heart slammed hard against her ribs as she stood. She hurried to the window and looked down, crying out in fright as she saw the dead Starks climb the towers, using each other’s bodies as a means to climb.

“Get away from the windows!” Tyrion barked, and Sansa was wrenched aside as two women closed the shutters, binding them shut with strips of cloth as though that could hold them out. Outside there were screams and pounding on the doors, the soldiers begging to be let in as the dead growled and snarled, drowning out the screams of those sworn to protect us.

“They can’t get through,” Sansa forced herself to say again, backing away from the scratching and clawing at the door. “They can’t, we’re safe…”

A hand punched through the door and the screams from inside were ear shattering but it was not nearly as bad as the howls of the dead trying to get in. Tyrion stood on the oversized barrel he was sitting at and raised his voice as loud as he could. “The top of the tower!” the dwarf roared, motioning to the stairs as more and more dead men were scratching and clawing at the door. “Go! Go!”

Sansa ran over to Nan who sat there on her chair and picked back up her crochet needles and yarn. 

“Nan, we need to go!” Sansa urged her, taking her by the arm. “We need to go, now!” 

“I’m fine, Little Lady,” she said as she sat there knitting looking white content. “You run along now.”

“I’m not leaving you!” Sansa looked around at the women left, eyes wide and frantic. “Help me with her! Please!”

Missandei immediately raced over and took Nan’s other arm. “We need to go,” the dragons adviser said softly. “We’ll help you up the stairs.”

“Don’t fuss over me. Gods Child, you just started living a freed life a few years ago and now you’re gonna risk it all for an old woman?” Nan chuckled at the thought and rested a wrinkled hand on Missandei's face before she took Sansa’s hand in hers and brought it to her paper thin lips. “I had a good long life,” she told the red head, “I told lots of Starks lots of stories-.”

“Nan, please,” Sansa said as tears fell from her eyes. 

“Hush now, Little Lady, it’ll be alright.” She picked up her knitting again. “Now you two get out of here, and let me get on with my knitting.” She nodded towards the work in her hands. “When all this is over, you make sure the little prince gets this. Edges might be a little frayed but that can’t be helped.”

“Nan-.”

“Listen to Old Nan, Sansa. Do as I say.”

The last beams of the doors were being broken down and the dead began to pour in. Sansa laid a kiss on her cheek before she and Missandei raced up the stairs, and the last thing Sansa heard was the dead crashing through the doors and overwhelming the old nursemaid.

The First Keep had no official use. It’s stones and mortar were cracked and crumbling, wind blew through the holes in the walls, it’s rooms stunk of dust and decay, it’s Direwolf banners smudged and faded to where they were merely grey blobs on a filthy white field. But one thing it was good for, that every Stark in the last 500 years had used it for, a secret only the pups of Winterfell knew, was just how good the First Keep was when you needed a hiding place in the game of hide and seek.

The rest of the women and children had raced up, up, up the stairs to the top of the tower. Sansa swallowed hard. That was not good. That would leave them with nowhere to escape, the same problem she had been faced with when Ramsey cornered her the first time she tried to light her candle. 

“Not there!” she yelled at Missandei, yanking her down the stairs a few steps as she hurried after the mob. Sansa led her to a small landing hidden under the stairs that you needed to step down off the side of the winding staircase to get to. If you did not know it was there you would have passed by it and never known.

Sansa threw open the door and she and Missandei raced in, slamming and locking it behind them. They were immediately plunged into darkness. “Feel around for a candle!” Sansa said as she began to do the same. A few moments later a tiny flicker of light filled the small space, and that led to a dusty three pronged candelabra, with hardened wax so thick you couldn’t tell the color of it. Missandei lit the three candles and even more light filled the room.

It was small and cramped, big enough for four people to stand, at most. Robb showed her the hiding place once when she was small, when Rickon was still in his swaddling clothes and drank from the breast. Sansa was never good at Hide and Seek, and was found first nearly every time. She had been scared to jump off the edge of the stairs but Robb promised there was a floor there, and that he wouldn’t let anything bad ever happen to her. 

It infuriated Arya when she could never find Sansa during their games after that, and the redhead would just giggle and tell her she would have to look harder. 

“I’m sorry about your nursemaid,” Missandei said kindly, drawing her from her memories. “She seemed like a good woman. A brave woman.”

“She was. She came to Winterfell to be a wet nurse to one of the Brandon’s.” Sansa chuckled through her tears. “She couldn’t even remember which Brandon it was, after a while.”

Missandei smiled softly before she bowed her head. “I am also sorry about jumping into your conversation earlier. It was rude of me.”

“If I heard someone talking about Brienne, I would have done the same, manners be damned.” Sansa went over and sat on an old rickety table. “The North has fought for its freedom for so long, and when we finally have it in our grasp it’s gone again.”

“Daenerys is not Cersei,” Missandei said. “She freed me. She’s freed others. If you were to give her a chance-.”

“I’ve given many chances to many people.” Sansa thought of Joffrey, of Cersei, of Ramsey and Littlefinger. “I always end up hurt, and my family suffers for it.”

“She will not be like that. She does not want to hurt you or the North, nor your family.”

“She threatened to burn me alive,” she said darkly.

“You nearly cost her the Dothraki,” Missandei reminded her and Sansa bowed her head. “I would have done much worse than just threaten if I were her, as I’m sure you would have done to her if you were in her position.”

“I thought she was trying to take weapons from the North,” she muttered. “I thought she was playing a game.”

Missandei shook her head. “Queen Daenerys does not play games. She loathes them. As someone who's been lied to and manipulated and hurt by these games, I wonder why you continue to play them.”

Sansa lifted her head to glare at her but before she could say another word there was a scratching at the door, not human, and a low dead howling. They backed up as far against the wall as they could. “The dead have wolves?!” Missandei cried as she saw direwolf paws scrape at the floor beneath the door. Sansa saw the tail of the pink ribbons around the direwolves neck as it snapped and snarled and growled as it stuck its snout under the doorframe.

“Lady…”

Another sound came then, footprints, heavy on stone, a rusted iron sword scraping across the floor. The two girls looked at one another as the door handle jiggled. Then came a pounding, a fist against the door, and another, and another, faster, faster, frantic and more hurried, more desperate, the dead man’s growls and cries and the Direwolfs snarls a horrible melody that made them both want to cover her ears, and weep. A bit of the door broke though, and then a face, cold and rotting and dead, it's head sewn onto its body with thick black and grey string, was staring at them. 

Sansa screamed as loud as she ever had before, her throat burning with fire, as she looked at the face of the man she would never forget, whose head she last saw sitting atop a spike in Kingslanding, the day after his death…


	13. The Long Night Part III

**Jon**

Longclaw was a blazing red light in the darkness. The world around him shimmered from the ferocity of its heat. The steel, already sharper than a regular sword, could have sliced through stone as easy as if it had been made of butter and wherever the flames licked at the dead’s men rotting flush they were instantly alight.

Jon grunted as he swung his sword in a wide reaching arc of steel and fire plunging it into their flesh, slicing through two or three at a time. Enemies fought, enemies clawed, enemies screamed and roared and bit and when he swung Longclaw, enemies died.

They were climbing over the gate, overwhelming the men and women in the yard and coming at Jon in waves and waves and he destroyed them all. It was as if some unseen force was controlling him. His feet were pivoting and he was swinging his sword before his eyes even saw the enemy, movements he never even saw before he could do with ease, when he leapt he was flying, when he swung his steel it was with the strength of ten men. Jon fought with the ferocity of a wolf, the grace of a stag, a lion's bravery and a dragon's might. 

But there were too many. Far too many. They surrounded him, the circle of dead twenty people deep all around them. Jon gripped the hilt tight as they circled him, closing in closer and closer, and that’s when he heard the low growls, and saw the red and golden eyes racing into the courtyard, white fangs bared, pointed ears low against the wolves heads.

Not just any wolves. Direwolves. Come from the North, with Ghost and a familiar bitch by his side leading the immense pack. The leapt into the group of dead that surrounded Jon, snarling, clawing, ripping, killing, fighting with the living, _for_ the living, and clearing a path for Jon to race through as they devoured the dead. 

The darkness crept heavier over the land the closer he got to the Godswood, and the fog was thicker. Jon swallowed his fear as he inched along the path he’d walked a thousand times before, freezing when two sets of icy blue eyes emerged from the darkness. These eyes did not belong to dead men, and Jon took a deep breath as he heard the scrape of icy steel being drawn from their scabbards. 

He clutched Longclaw tight in his grasp as he watched them walk closer, and closer. He fought one already, and that had taken every ounce of strength and wit and cunning he possessed. How was he going to fight two? How was he going to kill two?

Jon steadied his breath as they neared him. Two was too many. This was it. The end of the world. He would go down fighting until the end, he would make sure when people spoke of Ned Starks son, they would speak as a brave man who made his last stand mean something, even if it was all for naught. Jon thought of Sansa, of Arya, of Bran and Daenerys, the Queen most of all. He thought of her long silver hair and her violet eyes, her soft pale skin, her smile, her laugh… She would know he went down fighting. She would know he did his best to save the land of the living, to save her kingdom and her people.

The white walkers raised their icy swords, and he prepared himself for death.

And that was when he saw it. 

Two silvery-blue flames in the darkness racing towards him, the only lights in the world besides the billowing red of Longclaw. He heard the screams of battle before he saw the ones carrying the sword, a cry of ‘Lannister’ and ‘Evenfall’ and then the two knights were there beside him, swinging their swords and beating back one of the icy demons. Their movements were one in the same, knowing each other so well that they would react to what the other one was doing a half a second before they did it.

Jon roared as he swung his sword, meeting the one they left for him, flaming steel meeting sharp ice in an unholy screech, a renewed sense of purpose in every swing of the sword and every step.

One he could handle. 

One he could kill.

They fought in the darkness, in the biting cold, in the black fog, death balanced on every stroke. The white walker swung his weapon of ice, the blade whipping through the air so fast Jon could barely see it but somehow he managed to catch the edge of the weapon each time, until he didn't.

There was a patch of ice under food that caught him just right and he fell crashing to the cold hard ground. Before Jon could raise his sword the white walker stood upon his wrist, and Jon yelled and tried to unpin himself but he was far too heavy, far too strong. He watched as the white walker smiled down at Jon, and raised his weapon high above his head, ready to strike out humanity’s last chance of living.

Jon saw it happen a moment before it did. He saw the silvery-blue flame arch through the air, heard the green eyed man wielding the sword snarl as he pushed the fiery sword through its back and out through its front. 

The whitewalker fell apart in an explosion of blue, the shards sharp and cold and falling to the ground as though he was nothing more than a child shaking the snow and ice from a branch. Jon heard another loud scream, and when he looked towards the sound just in time to see Oathkeeper cut through the second white walker's waist and a similar blast of ice followed.

“Try to stay on your feet, Snow,” Jaime panted, sheathing his sword so he could offer him his remaining hand.

“I’ll do my best,” Jon answered as the Lannister pulled him to his feet. 

In the distance he heard faint cries of cheer and disbelief, and he wondered just how many people were inches away from death when their enemies just slumped over motionless on the ground. 

“Come on,” he said to the two knights after Jaime assured Brienne that he was okay and vice-versa. “We need to get to Bran.” 

Three swords, one a billowing red and the other two a cool silvery blue, made their way through the darkness. Jon led the group as the other two flanked him, cutting down the dead men that came running at them with flaming swords and grunts and cries, and the closer they got to Bran, the darker it became. Jon could see the Ironborn loosing the last of their arrows, hammering at the dead with their axes and in the middle of the small clearing sat Bran, cool and calm as Theon stood faithful and vigilant by his side, shooting arrow after arrow at the dead and finding its mark each time.

Jon saw him reach in his empty quiver and saw him swallowed hard when he grabbed at nothing as an eerie darkness crept in, and icy blue eyes appeared in the darkness. 

“Theon,” Bran spoke calmly. Theon turned to the boy. “You’re a good man. Thank you.”

Tears filled his eyes. He turned towards the icy eyes and lowered himself, ready to run. Before he could though, Jon called out to him and gave him pause. He clapped the man who betrayed his brother and burned his home on the shoulder. 

“Protect my brother,” he begged, “make your stand with me,” and Theon wiped his tears and nodded before they turned back to the whitewalkers descending on them.

“Four of them left and the nightking,” he said. “Five against four. We can win this. We have to win this.” They came closer, bringing their icy death with them. “The night king is mine,” Jon breathed. “Only I can kill him…” He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter and took a final deep breath before he looked back at those who promised to stand by him. “For Westeros.” 

The bastard wolf and dragon prince charged forward.

**Missandei**

“NO, NO, PLEASE!”

She watched as the redhead pushed herself flat against the far wall as the deadman and the wolf clawed at the door, covering her ears as if that could rid them away. “PLEASE, NO!”

Missandei grabbed hold of the table and tried to lift it as a means to bar the door but it was too heavy for her. “Help me!” she yelled at Sansa who just shook her head and sobbed. “Sansa!” She stormed over to her and took her by the shoulders. “We need to bar the door!”

“I CAN’T!” she screamed and Missandei slapped her, hard, enough to bring her back from her fit of hysterics. She looked at her as though she were seeing her for the first time. 

“We need to bar the door,” she said again, more firmer, finally getting through to her. The two girls went over to the table and grabbed it, moving it in front of the door and piling chairs and everything else in the small room on top of it. Tears were racing down Sansa’s face, and at one point she was sobbing so hard she could barely move but she forced herself to put one step in front of the other, until the deadman punched through the door and she fell to the floor in another fit of sobs.

“I’m sorry!” she sobbed, throwing her hands over her ears as the man and wolf tried to crash through the door. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

“Who is that?!” Missandei demanded, jumping and screaming and leaping back as the wolf threw herself up against the door. “Sansa!”

Another crash. It was as if the door and the things they pushed in front of it were merely parchment papers. Missandei wept as she threw herself back against the furthest wall as the wolf clawed her way into the room, half rotted, nearly all flesh and bones with a few bits of dirty grey fur clinging to the wolf, and a long pink ribbon tied around its neck. 

Missandei grabbed the candelabra and jabbed it at the snarling wolf. “Get back!” she screamed, the flames a fast blur of red as she waved it back and forth. “Back!”

The wolf took no heed of her commands. It’s haunches we’re raised and it’s brown rotted teeth were barred. A black tongue licked at its chops before she leapt at the woman and Missandei smacked it across the face hard with the candelabra, sending it across the room, the flames catching the pink ribbons on fire that quickly spread to the rest of the wolf. 

It howled and screamed as it laid there writhing on the floor, burning. Sansa closed her eyes and turned her head, unable to look at the wolf as if seeing the beast dying was somehow causing her pain.

Missandei turned her attention back to the dead man who was clawing and ripping at the door and the barricades, it’s roaring voice making Sansa cry louder as she begged to drown it out. She gripped the candelabra tighter, swallowing hard as he swung a rusty iron sword at the door, the blunt steel making a hefty dent in the wood.

“Sansa...” Missandei trembled, swallowing hard. “Sansa, I need help...” She cried out as the man crashed through the door and Sansa finally looked towards the dead man. “Sansa!”

His iron-sword dragged on the ground as he walked in the room. It’s furs stuck to his rotten flesh, and it’s head was lopsided, as though held up with string rather than muscles. His eyes were an icy blue and what stringy brown hair was left fell in his sunken face. A tarnished silver direwolf broach was pinned to his chest.

Missandei swung the candelabra at him the same as she had done with the wolf but he raised his sword and with one hit he managed to send the silver candlestick flying. Ross the room. He swung the iron sword again and Missandei ducked down and hurried away from him. There would be no way to get to the ruined door, she would need to run past him for that, so she fled towards the furthest corner, backing herself up as far as she could, and he followed.

“Leave her alone!” Sansa begged as she hurried to her feet, her tears blinding her. She held something tight in her trembling hand. “Father, please! it’s Sansa! **_ITS SANSA_ **!”

The deadman roared in response and raised his rusted blade. Missandei screamed and covered her face with her arms, waiting for the cold steel of the sword to pierce her but it never came. He screamed an unholy scream, and when she opened her eyes she saw a dragonglass dagger sticking out of his side and Sansa behind him, tears streaming down her face. It gave Missandei to scamper past and grab ahold of one of the candles that had fallen from the candelabra and raced back, setting the dry bones and flesh aflame. He screeched and roared as he fell to the ground, thrashing and clawing at the dirty wooden floor until he laid still, his screams silenced. 

Sansa approached him and fell to her knees beside him, weeping tans begging for forgiveness over and over. Missandei took a deep breath and went over, kneeling besides the younger girl and wrapped her arms around her. Sansa immediately began to weep on her shoulders, clutching at her gown as the fires on both the dead man and wolf turned to nothing but grey ash.

**Jaime**

Jaime never fought as hard as he did. He never faced a tougher opponent. Every strike of his sword against the icy steel sent a shudder down his back and his enemy did not tire, did not rest, did not get worn down. Brienne stood to his right, replacing the hand he lost to save her virtue. They fought as one, the silvery blue flames shimmering with every swing of the sword, yet it was shockingly cool to the touch. The light was so dim that Jaime could scarcely see her, though they stood a scant few feet apart. In this light she could almost be a beauty, he thought. In this light she could almost be a knight.

The bastard boy was fighting the white walkers as well, and the sword glowed red hot in his hand as he fought the tallest and broadest of them all, the highest lieutenant before the crowned one who smiled at Jaime came. Four against four, with Brienne and Jaime fighting their own as well as each other's enemy anytime the other was in danger. She saved him from a blow to his right side he wouldn’t have been able to catch, and he pushed her out of the way when she was too slow to move out of the way of a swing that would have taken off her head.

His enemy was forcing him backwards as he hacked and hammered at the knight, unfazed by the silvery-blue. The white walker swung his sword up and down in a flash of icy steel and Jaime blocked the blow with his golden hand. The gold shattered on impact and made him grit his teeth as a shudder ran down his back and up his arm. The white walker froze, stunned at what should have been a killing blow, and giving time for Jaime to cut through him with Widow's Wail, exploding him in a shatter of ice, and more of the dead men fell.

He ran back towards Brienne, and for a moment, just one moment, they had the white walker fighting her on the defense. The flaming swords flew fast and unyielding, a beautiful cool blue light in the darkness. Jaime managed to get his sword wrapped around the white walkers icy steel and Brienne went to thrust Oathkeeper through his breast. But one hand could not hold a sword in that position for long, and the strength in his left arm was still not nearly as strong as his right, and the white walker untangled his sword from Jaime’s.

“NO!” he roared, shoving Brienne out of the way, but he was not fast enough. The blade didn’t strike her heart, but instead pierced her shoulder, though one end and out the other, a half an inch away from where Jaime wanted the strike to land in his own flesh. 

Brienne screamed and fell to the ground, clutching her bleeding shoulder. The white walker twisted the blade inside her and yanked it out, rising it above her long pale neck. Jaime roared again as he swung Widow's Wail, catching him in the side and shattering him in another explosion of pale blue ice. Oathkeeper laid at Brienne's side, it’s fire dimmed greatly and climbing slowly down the blade.

“No!” he cried as he fell to his knees, gathering her in his arms. “No, no, no, no! Brienne!”

“Cold…” she breathed, trembling so hard he could barely hold her. Her big blue eyes found his. “Jaime…”

“Hang on,” he whispered, his hand fumbling to take her armor off. “Hang on, I’ll get you out of here.”

 _Keep your oath_ _Lannister,_ a voice inside his mind said firmly, Bran’s voice. _Keep your oath to keep his son safe._

“I never swore an oath to Ned fucking Stark!” he hissed, not caring how or why he was able to speak without words passing through his lips. He wouldn’t be able to carry her in her armor one handed, he needed to get it off her. He needed to save her. Oathkeeper’s light grew dimmer.

 _You swore an oath to Rheagar._ Jaime ignored him. _You swore an oath to protect his children._

 **His children are dead!** he shouted back in his mind, not wasting breath on words. **I need to save her! I need to protect her, she’s the only one who matters!**

_Not all of them. Not his last son. Not the son he made with Lyanna Stark._

Jaime whipped towards Bran, eyes wide. The strange boy gave him a curt nod, and he looked towards Jon and his jaw dropped as he looked at the face illuminated by the blood red flames. How could he not have seen it before? How could he have ever missed it? There was a Northern Stark look to him, no doubt. But there was also a beauty only the Targaryens had, a sad beauty that Rheagar had. He saw the prince's nose, his cheek bones, the shape of his eyes… 

_You choose innocents over your vows once,_ Bran told him. _Now it is time to choose your vows over an innocent._

“Jaime…” she whispered and he ran a hand through her pale yellow hair.

“I need to fight with him,” he told her, stroking her hair. “But I’ll be back, I swear it. Stay alive, Wench. You aren’t allowed to die.”

She nodded weakly and Jaime positioned her sword over her heart before he stood and raced over to Theon just as his dragonglass ax destroyed the one he was fighting. Jaime grabbed him by the chest plate and swung him around. 

“You protect her,” he ordered the krakens son. “Me and Snow got the boy, you protect her. She saved you and your lady once, now you return the favor.”

Theon nodded before he hurried over to Brienne, standing guard over her. Jaime did his best to ignore the second flames on her sword starting to dwindle. Jon grunted as he swung his sword, cutting the lieutenants head clear off with another shattering of ice and snow. 

There was a deathly silence in the Godswood as Jaime and Jon stood side by side, flaming swords in hand as they stared down the dark path at the blue eyes coming closer. 

“You can see to her,” Jon panted, not taking his eyes from the king of death. “You fought long and bravely, I will not begrudge you choosing her over the North.”

“I am not choosing the North over her, I’ll never choose this bloody country over her. I swore an oath,” he said as the night king approached slowly, pulling two icy swords from its scabbard. “To your father, to keep his children safe. I intend to keep that promise.”

Jon whipped his head to gape wide eyed and slack jawed at him and Jaime met his eyes, giving him a curt nod and turning back to the enemy. Jon swallowed hard before he turned back to the Nightking who stopped feet from them. The air was thick and heavy and dark, full of death and cold, and Jaime shuddered but he would not turn away.

“Don't let him lift his hands,” Jon breathed. “That’s how he raises the dead…”

“You are going to die,” Bran hissed, and both Jaime and Jon whipped towards the boy whose eyes had gone a striking icy blue. Bran turned to look at Jaime, his voice unlike anything either ever heard. “You will die, Lightbringer, as will your Knight. Her flame will go out, and yours will follow,” he said to Jaime in the queer dead voice before before he looked to Jon. “You are going to fail, Prince who was Promised. You will fall. The North will fall, the House of Stark will fall, the Three Eyed Raven will fall, the Dragon will fall, and the living will fall.”

“Get the fuck out of my brothers head!” Jon snarled, and the red flames of his sword grew brighter. “He doesn’t belong to you!”

A slow smile moved across cold thin lips. “All the living will belong to me…”

Jon roared and leapt, swinging his sword as fast as he could and Jaime following a moment later. The night king charged at them with his blades upheld, Jaime dodged the first and met the second with his own sword. The weight of the thing sent his opponent’s blade back, back, back…but not near far enough to knock either blade free of his hands. The Nightking was silent as the two men slashed at him and Jaime took a step back as the four swords met in the air again and again. 

The Nightking raised his sword and brought it down. This arcing shot sliced the fabric of Jaime’s shirt at the midsection. It missed the flesh behind it by perhaps an inch and Jaime repaid the kindness by whipping his steel through the air so fast it whistled but it was still not fast enough and he caught it easily and advanced. Jaime swung and missed then swung and missed again. 

Jon fought beside him, hacking and hammering but it was as though they were fighting five men all at once rather than one. Blue and red flames shimmered and sparks flew as icy metal met valyrian steel. Grunting, Jaime came at him, blade whirling, but he caught and parried every blow. Jon blocked his swing, again and again until they locked weapons and with a loud yell Jon pushed him back with his parry and nearly made the Nightking stumble. High, low, overhand, the two men rained down flaming steel upon him. Left, right, backslash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came together, upswing, side-slash, overhand, always attacking… 

The Nightking was no longer smiling. He was snarling, and the world around them was so cold they could barely breathe. He whipped the swords through the air and blows were so heavy that it sent both men to the ground, groaning in pain. 

“No!” Jon yelled as he saw him start to raise his arms. Jaime scampered to his feet and brought his sword down on what would have been a killing strike to the head, and the Nightking was forced to parry and block, and the dead stayed still. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Theon fighting the odd dead man who came screaming into the Godswood, making sure they could not touch the defenseless woman on the ground. 

She had but a quarter of the borrowed flame left.

He felt the icy steel a half a breath away from his flesh and he turned just in time to catch the strike and he parried back, striking at him with the jagged edges of the golden hand that did nothing to damage the Nightking but it did give him a rather crazy idea.

Jaime saw an Ironman dead at his feet, a dragonglass dagger in hand. He dove for the weapon and grabbed it, fumbling at it for a moment before he shoved the hilt tight into the destroyed remnants of his golden hand.

“Two can play at this fucking game!” Jaime snarled as he stood again, slashing at him with the dragonglass dagger and flaming sword. He parried their blocks again, and both men pushed back as hard as they could, grunting and swearing and using all of their strength and for half a second, just one single second, the Nightking was forced to step back and they were able to advance.

But then the Nightking summoned his own strength and once again they fell to the ground. Jaime groaned as he pushed himself to his hands and knees, doing his best to catch his breath. The Nightking smiled his dangerous smile at the two of them before advancing on Bran who just gazed up at him, motionless, eyes back to their normal brown. 

“I said!” Jon growled as he climbed to his feet. “Stay away from my BROTHER!”

A second later Jon was on him, raining fire and hell down on the Nightking who turned just in time to block the dark haired man’s frantic blows. The flaming sword moved as fast as anything Jaime ever saw and the look of rage on the wolf face would have frightened lesser men as he struck and blow and pierced and hammered his steel down over and over, again and again. His shadow was not a man but a wolf and a dragon screaming, howling, burning the snows around him and Jaime starred in awe for a moment before he remembered he was supposed to be helping.

He hurried to his feet and charged with a frightful lion's roar. Even with two hands he was never as good a swordsman as he was right there in that Godswood. The ferocity of a thousand lions, and the fearlessness of every Lannister king seemed to possess him and Jaime found himself fighting as well as he had at the peak of his strength, and Jon… Jon was a wolf. Jon was a dragon. He was the ancient Starhs and the Noble Targaryens, he was fire and ice, his sword sang with every stroke and the red flames grew brighter with every blow. 

The Nightking took a step back away from Bran, and then another, and another, and soon, for the first time since they began the fight, the dead was defending himself and the living was winning. 

Jaime swung his sword through the air, coming at him from a high angle. It glanced off the steel and slid down the blade, and he had to use his second sword to block Jaime’s from sliding down his first.

There was one second that he was defenseless on his right side. Just one, single second, and Jon took it. He thrust Longclaw into his chest before he could use either blade to block the bastard sword. The sound of steel plunged into ice cracked and hissed, and then he shattered. 

All around them the dead fell. Every deadman that the Ironborn was keeping off the two of them collapsed to the ground, and they could hear a thick heavy mass collapsing and falling in the direction of the castle, and he knew that the dead men who had been climbing the walls and storming the castle fell back down again. 

Jaime took a step back, letting the tip of his sword drop to the ground for the first time in what felt like ages. Jon collapsed to his knees panting and trembling, and when he looked towards Bran the young boy just stared back, as cold faced as he was before the battle. 

“Ser Jaime!” a voice yelled out and Jaime turned towards Theon where Brienne had slumped against the ground, frozen, unmoving.

“No… NO!”

He raced over to the Knight and held her in his arms and she didn’t move, didn’t open her big blue eyes to the world. Jaime looked back at Brienne and Oathkeeper. It’s flames were all but gone, with only a tiny flicker of a flame left.

“ _When the flames die, so must you_ ,” the red witch had said. Jaime looked at his own sword, it’s flames bright and beautiful and strong, and with a deep breath he pressed the flaming steel of his sword to hers. He gasped and clutched at his heart as he felt the life leaving him and flowing into her. He gave as much as he could handle, half of himself, before he pulled it back, gasping for breath. His sword had only half a flame, but now at least so did hers. Brienne’s eyes fluttered open for a moment and she clutched at Oathkeeper hilt before she fell silent again

Jaime sheathed his sword and threw the dagger to the ground and put his arms under hers, struggling to his feet. “Help me!” he yelled at Theon, at the Ironborn, at Jon, at anyone. “Help me get her to the Maesters, please! _Please!”_

Jon recovered from the shock and he stood to his feet unsteadily and hurried over to them. He grabbed Brienne’s legs and the two of them carried the newly made Knight through the Godswood. 

“Hang on, Wench”, Jaime breathed as they passed through the mass of dead and dying, having no eyes for any of them besides the blonde in his arms. “Just hang on…”

In the east a sun began to rise, as bright and beautiful as the one on her sigil, and in the distance a woman in a blood red cloak walked through the gate, stumbled in the snows, and finally fell...


	14. Chapter 14

**Jaime**

The medical hall was packed. The sounds of dying groans, screams of pain and sorrowful weeping filled the air. Maesters and those who were of the learned mind were running back and forth with their instruments and herbs, barking orders at those under them. The Dothraki healers were working feverishly as well, speaking in a mix of common tongue and Dothraki and other languages from across the narrow sea

Jaime and Jon hurried into the long hall with the tall blonde knight in their arms and looked around for an empty bed along with other men who were walking in of their own accord or were being carried or assisted by their brothers in arms. Brienne was not as heavy as Jaime imagined her to be and had he been at his full strength even with one hand he could have carried her on his own. She was growing paler by the moment and Oathkeepers light was growing dimmer. Jon’s flame had gone out the moment after the Nightking exploded into shards of ice but not Jaime’s nor Briennes. 

It appeared their fight still needed to be fought.

“There!” Jaime barked nodding towards a bed on the outskirts of the rest. A young Dothraki healer was lowering some unsullied which hadn’t made it to the ground, covering his face with a cloth to mark him for death and Jon and Jaime wasted no time in setting Brienne up on the roughshod bed before any other injured man could claim it.

“Heal her,” Jaime commanded the young man who swallowed hard. “She was stabbed in the shoulder, a white walkers blade.”

“I- I can’t,” he stammered out nervously in a thick Essoian accent, brown eyes looking from Jaime to Brienne. “Take her to another bed, please.”

“There’s no other beds!”

“She needs a Maester, Ser. Go to another bed.” He looked over Jaime’s shoulders and waved over a groaning Dothraki man with one half of his face covered in blood and a black gaping hole where his eye once was. 

“No!” Jaime roared, making the healer flinch. “She was here before him, he can walk on his own, the wench comes first! Help her!  **NOW** !” Oathkeeper’s flame now only had a foot or so of pale dim light left. When the healer started to stammer again Jaime bared his teeth and grabbed the healer by the simple threadbare robe he wore, swinging him around and slamming him up against the wall. Jon yelled at him to stop but Jaime took no care or notice. “You are going to save her or I swear to all the Gods I will run you through!”

“What are you doing?!”

While Jaime didn’t turn towards the new arrival Jon did and out of the corner of his eye he saw the dark haired man visibly relax and his eyes come alive with relief. “Daenerys…”

He took the Queen in his arms, kissing the top of her head and the Lion wanted to scream. How could anyone think of anything other than Brienne dying? How could anyone feel joy or happiness or any sort of positive emotion with the knowledge that she could be gone in a matter of minutes? Didn’t they know that if she died then saving the world would have been all for naught because a world without Brienne was not a world worth living in?

“What are you doing up?” Jon asked, burning his hand in her long silver hair and immediately pulling back when she flinched. “You should be resting.”

“I’m fine.” She smiled to prove her point. “Your Maester said it’s just a few superficial cuts and a rather nasty bump on the head, it’s fine. I need to be here, to be the strength for my people.” Daenerys rested her palms overtop his heart. “I heard the dead fall, all of them. Is it really over?”

“It is,” he said with a strangled laugh. “We won, Dany. The living won…”

Daenerys threw her arms around Jon, burying her face in his shoulders and he held her just as tight, tears of joys streaming down his cheeks.

“Khaleesi,” the healer said, voice trembling, and the two of them remembered why she stormed over here in the first place. 

“Let him go,” Daenerys ordered sharply. Jaime could have laughed. Her intimidation meant nothing to him now. The Father himself could command him to release this man and he would have told him where exactly he could go. 

“You’re bloody healer won’t help her!” Jaime snarled, tightening the grasp on his robes and pushing him further into the stone wall. “Lady Brienne is dying and he won’t help her!”

For the first time Daenerys turned her attention to Brienne, and she swallowed hard. This time her harsh firmness was directed at the man in Jaime’s clutches. “Help this woman. _Now_ _Havi!”_

“I cannot, Khaleesi.”

“Is she beyond your skills?” Havi shook his head. “Then what is the problem?”

“We were given orders not to touch the Westerosi before the battle,” he said stuttering nervously. “We were told not to heal them.”

“By who?”

“The healer of this castle, he said his Lady commanded it. The virzeth ver, she gave the order. She does not trust us, nor our skills she said.”

“The red wolf,” Daenerys muttered. A murderous expression crossed her face as she looked towards an equally angryJon. “My people bled and fought for this country even after I told them they did not have too and your sister couldn’t trust us enough to help her people,  _ MY  _ people as much as hers!”

“BRIENNE!”

The scream of her name finally gained Jaime’s attention and he turned to see Sansa quickly hand a wounded woman she was helping off to another before she raced over to them, tears flooding her eyes and spilling over onto her porcelain cheek. “No! NO!”

If she saw the barbarous looks from Jon and Daenerys she ignored it, instead clutching Brienne's limp hand in hers and looking around frantically before she spotted the healer. “Don’t just stand there save her!” she yelled. “Can’t you see she’s dying! SAVE HER!”

“Why would he?” Daenerys spat, and Sansa finally turned towards her. “You gave the order for my healers not to touch them. You couldn’t find it in your heart to trust the men and women who would have worked tirelessly, effortlessly to save whatever man they came across.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said, voice choked with barely restrained hysterics, turning from Daenerys to the healer. “I am sorry, now- now please, order them to save her!”

“No.” Jaime whipped his head towards the Queen. Her eyes were hard, her voice firm. “You nearly killed my Dothraki with your order not to give them dragonglass, and now you say you do not trust my men to heal yours, you find them incompetent, you believe that I would give the command to harm what you believe I consider the enemy. I will not give them any order but to follow your own, Lady Sansa,” she spat as if her words were poisoned. “If a Maester is free, although I do not see how one will become available soon considering I gave no such order to the Maesters about seeing to my men, he is free to tend to her but none of my men will save her.”

“You will let an innocent woman die for politics!” Sansa shouted. 

“You gave the order, Sansa!” Jon yelled back. “You were the one who told them not to touch Westerosi! If you could have just bloody trusted someone-!”

“I was afraid!”

“BRIENNE IS DYING!” Jaime roared above them all, and turned every face to his. “I don’t care whose fault it is, I will not let her die in this shithole country for a fucking game and mistrust! Your Grace if you order her healed I will help you win whatever war you find yourself in,” he said quickly. “Rather you fight the Starks or the south I am yours if you command your man to help her. She is a good woman, an innocent woman, an honorable woman and she played a large part in all of us standing here today. She would do the same for you. Please,” he begged. Her eyes were full of sorrow and pity, and pain most of all. “Please help her.”

“I do not doubt the decency of Lady Brienne,” she said softly and Jaime shook his head, knowing what was coming. “If she succumbs to her wounds I will be among the many who mourn her.”

“Your Grace-!”

“But I will not allow prejudice and mistreatment of my men to go unanswered, even if the cost is a life.”

“You can have me instead.” Jaime’s voice did not shake as he thought it might. “Do you still wish to kill me for what I did to your father? What I allowed your brother's family to go though? I’ll give myself to your dragons openly with a full heart and a smile, I’ll go to them right now but you need to save her first.”

“Ser Jaime-.”

“ _ Please _ !” 

“My answer is no,” she said firmly but not unkindly. “I’m sorry, Ser Jaime.”

“Khaleesi, I will heal her!”

They all turned towards Havi who had been hanging back rather nervously this whole time. “Please, Khaleesi, allow me to help this woman!”

“No, Havi. I’ve given my final word.”

He looked like he would rather go ten rounds with the dead then speak again but he did, voice trembling. “It was the Dothraki who took me from my village. They slaughtered my friends, dishonored my wife and only allowed me to live because they knew I was a healer. They made me a eunuch, then shaved my head and renamed me a woman’s name to mock me, before forcing me to heal the ones who brutalized me. When you told us the night of Drogo’s burning to leave if we wanted, I stayed with you because you had been kind to those your Khal deemed as lessers. When I saw you free the unsullied, I knew you were strong. When I saw you free the slaves of Astapor and punish the masters, I knew you were fair and just. You gave us a choice, every day, Khaleesi,” he said, his voice growing in strength with every word.   


Even though he was arguing with her the awe and admiration he held for the Queen was stunning to behold. Jaime never once saw any man, in any of the kings or queens he served, that fervent in their devotion. “Leave or serve you, and you swore you would not stop us and I believed you. You allowed us to make our own choices, because you said that is what being free means.” He motioned to the tall woman lying on the bed, and Jaime let out a sob as the last glint of fire began flickering, as though it were a candle in a wind fighting to stay alight. “Let me make my own choice now, Khaleesi, not follow orders from you or the wolf. If needs be I will unfollow you to do so, and pray to the great Shepherd that you will forgive my insolence and welcome me back afterwards.”

He saw tears prick at her violet eyes. She swallowed hard, letting the words marinade for a long while before she spoke, her voice barely a whisper. “I will not tell you to heal the Westerosi or not… You are a freed man. You may make your own choice.” Havi gave her a beaming grin, quickly bowed his head and ran over to Brienne’s side, medical bag in hand. 

Jaime closed his eyes, thanking six of the Gods and screaming at the Stranger to stay as far away from Brienne as possible. When he opened his eyes again Jon and Daenerys were gone, and the healer was cutting into her shoulder.

“Her blood is like ice,” Havi muttered, furrowing his brow. “That’s what’s killing her; the whole wound is coated in ice, and cold is spreading beyond her shoulder. Whatever caused this injury is freezing her insides.” 

He grabbed a thin wool blanket at the foot of the tiny bed and covered her with it. Jaime pulled the flaming sword from his scabbard, it’s half fire still hearty and strong and warm, and laid it at her breast, grabbing her hand and letting her clasp the hilt. He did the same with Oathkeeper and it’s far smaller and far more fickle flame, that grew a shade longer and brighter when he clasped her other hand around the golden hilt, their flames lighting her, warming her, saving her.

“Please be okay,” Sansa sniffed from beside her as she grabbed her hand. An insurmountable rage filled him at the sight. He stormed around the bed and grabbed the front of her dress, yanking her close. 

“Get off me!” she screamed, trying to push him away but she may as well have been trying to move a mountain.

“If Brienne dies,” the lion snarled. “I will burn Winterfell to the ground with every living Stark trapped inside it. You think my sister is someone to be feared when someone she cares about is in danger, little pup?” Jaime yanked her closer, a gleam of dangerous white teeth showing. “I’m the one that knows how to use a sword...”

**Daenerys**

“I cannot believe her,” Jon spat as he stormed to the front gate, Daenerys walking beside him. “How many of the Northmen are going to die because of her? How many of her own Valesmen? The Lords will want her head once they find that out and I’m almost inclined to let them have it!”

Jon stopped to lean up against the wall and shook his head. “I don’t know what to do with her,” he sighed. “I don’t. Sansa does not trust anyone, she plays her games and people wind up dead or hurt.”

She took his face in her hand and gently stroked his cheek. Jon rested a hand overtop of hers. “We’ll figure this all out tomorrow,” Daenerys promised him with a gentle kiss. “For now we need to go collect the dead and help the survivors. Then tomorrow we will have a feast in your honor.”

“No,  _ I _ need to go collect the dead and help the survivors.  _ You _ need to get back to your chambers and sleep.” 

“I told you I’m fine.”

“Better safe than sorry.” 

“Are you giving your Queen a command?” she asked with faux astonishment that Jon merely smiled at.

“No, Your Grace. I’m merely asking the woman I love to go and rest.” He pressed his lips to her and wrapped her in his arms. “I thought I lost you,” Jon whispered stroking her hair, “When you fell from Drogon it was the scariest moment of my life.”

“Mine as well,” she admitted, interlocking his burned hand with hers. “But Bran had his reasons, I suppose. I just wish he would have asked for the blood beforehand, I would have given it freely. I didn’t need to fall off a dragon. Speaking of which, where are they?”

“I left Rheagal resting outside the Godswood, he was injured. I’m unsure where Drogon is but I can’t imagine he’ll be hard to find.”

Daenerys' face fell. “Rheagal is hurt?”

“Your other dragon, the dead one, they fought in the sky. That’s why me and the Nightking fell. I’m so sorry, Daenerys, I tried to protect him,” he said quickly and she raised her hand to silence him.

“Do not take blame for this,” she said, hoping he understood her words were sincere. “There is nothing more dangerous to a dragon than it’s own kin. But I need to see to him, to both of them, before I do any resting.”

“Of course. Forgive me for not coming with you, there’s a lot that needs to be done here.” They shared in a brief kiss. “I’ll come to you later,” Jon promised. “Let me know how Rheagal fares.”

“I will.”

With another kiss the two headed in seperate directions, Jon towards the endless pile of dead men outside the gates and Daenerys to the green scaled dragon laid curled up around himself. Deep cuts and claw marks littered his body and the red blood steamed where it fell on the snows. His wings had a rip in the leather and several of his scales had been ripped out. He lifted his head high enough just enough to nudge her hand as she petted him. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, stroking his snout. “You were never supposed to fight another dragon, not ever.” 

He purred low in his throat and Daenerys urged him to his unsteady feet. He protested with a soft growl but he nevertheless walked forward at her command. His wings laid limp at his side and every step seemed to cause him pain and tears fell from the queen's eyes as she watched him limp forward. This would be a heavy blow in the war effort but that was the last thing on her mind. Her dragon, her beautiful green scaled child was hurt. Injured fighting in a country where its Lady did not trust its mother or her people.

That was her war as well as the North’s. The Northmen were her people, she had an obligation to protect them if she wished to rule them, the same as she had an obligation to protect the masters in Meereen (once she made them pay their debts to the slaves they crucified.) But Sansa’s distrust, the Northmen dislike after she and her armies and her dragons helped them… It was getting to be too much. If she took vengeance on Sansa she risked civil war and a total uprising. If she let it slide she risked the kind of casual disrespect that lent itself to open rebellion.

None other of her ancestors had to deal with this. They all left the North alone and the North in turn stayed quiet until they were called upon to fight for the crown. They had always answered, without fail, and then went back to their snows and ice to govern themselves with the crowns thanks. But that all changed when Aerys burned two of their Great Lords alive and commanded the death of another, and Rheagar scampered away with Lyanna.

And now Daenerys sat here, dealing with a rebellious daughter who in all but name commanded and led over half her kingdom. She could always demand Sansa marry some small no-name Lord in the south and give Winterfell to Arya, put the North in the hands of an ally and take away Sansa’s political power. That idea left nearly as soon as it came though. That would be too cruel to both girls. Arya did not want to rule and Daenerys would not force Sansa to marry another man in the name of politics, no matter how tempting the prospect. But she would need to do something about the redhead, and soon. 

After she led Rheagal to the clearing he flopped down in the spot they had made their beds, exhausted by the short trek. “I’ll bring you some nice goats, okay?” she promised stroking his green scales. “The nice young tender ones like you like.” He made a low content sound in his throat and Daenerys kissed him on his snout before she made her way to the west side of the castle where judging by the stream of red hot flame shooting into the air and the loud roar that was where Drogon was. 

She raced to the side of the keep and saw several Dothraki, his handlers since before he could even fly trying to calm him down but Drogon was having none of it. He was screaming and thrashing, shooting flame a hundred feet into the air, flying into the air and stomping back down, whipping his head back and fourth. Drogon’s scream brought them back to the present.

“He’s been aggravated this whole time,” one of them said in their native tongue, putting his hands up in an urge for peace. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“I do,” Daenerys said as she approached her child. “A dragon dislikes being forced to serve. There’s a reason the Valeryans did not come west until they thought all the old magic was gone from the North. Drogon!” she called out and he roared in response, clawing and beating at the Frozen ground. “Drogon, you’re safe now,” Daenerys promised in a soft low voice, walking closer to him than the other handlers dared. “You are free again. You are not a slave.”

Drogon whipped his neck around and roared in his mother’s face, the heat a thousand times hotter than any forge, and she could see the flames in the back of his throat. She stood still, forcing herself not to show her fear.

“Drogon,” she whispered, reaching out with a trembling hand and resting it on his thick black scales. He hissed and snapped his teeth at her in response. “You are not his any longer. I swear to you. He will never do that again. Come with me,” she urged him, gently. “Please. Your brother needs your strength.” 

He growled low in his throat and screamed again but he did not fly away, he did not burn or bite her. He leapt into the air and with a beat of his wings that made them all stumble back he took flight. For a moment she feared he might fly south but instead he touched down at the meadow beyond the castle where Rheagal was laying sick and injured, and Daenerys breathed a sigh of relief. 

“No one go near him for the next few days,” she said. “Send some goats loose in the area for him to hunt but stay away from him. Drogon is rather… moody, at the moment.”

After the handlers all agreed Daenerys headed back to the castle, making her way through the mass of dead men, old and new. She spotted Greyworm directing his men on where to lay the bodies of the fallen Unsullied, she saw Ser Jorah translating for some of the Dothraki warriors, Tyrion dragging a corpse that was not part of the resistance and Varys was helping some of the younger children in the crypts discover if their fathers and mothers were in the great pile of dead, the living or the wounded. She felt a great sense of joy and relief. Her advisers, her closest allies were spared the horrors of death. Her dragon was injured but he would heal in time, and Jon survived it all as well. He would go on living, he would go on fighting, he would go on being with her. 

Daenerys headed towards the First Keep where even now bodies of innocent women and children were being carried out, but by and large most had survived. She did not want to think of the utter massacre that would have happened if they had been locked down in the crypts. 

A small boy, a fresh corpse with curly hair, Jon’s hair, laid at the foot of the tower. Daenerys ordered one of the northmen walking around to bring him back to the crypt and to Kay what she knew to be the body of Rickon Stark back in his resting place. She thought perhaps they might take offense, but instead he just muttered a polite agreement and cradled the body in his arms as though he was still living, having recognized the face of the dead boy as well. She saw more well dressed corpses at the base of the tower, and inside. Daenerys would say a prayer for the dead Stark kings and lords who had been at peace and then forced to attack their own home and kin, and more than likely would not be put back to rest in the crypts. 

She walked inside, frowning as she looked around. Many of the corpses had been cleared to make a path, left outside of the great stone tower, but there was one fresh body who had not been dead prior to the assault. An old woman was slumped over in her chair, knitting needles in hand, and a rather calm serene look on her face, as though she had welcomed death rather than feared it. 

“She was a kind woman,” a voice said from behind, and when Daenerys turned she could have wept when she saw her adviser unscathed and alive. She ran over to the curly haired woman and threw her arms around her. 

“You’re okay!” Daenerys breathed, a tearful catch in her throat. “You’re okay…”

“I am, Your Grace,” Missandei said with equal emotion. “And so are you…” The two of them held each other for a long while before they pulled apart and Daenerys smiled, taking her face in her hands. 

“When I heard there was trouble in the First Keep…”

“The dead from the crypts, they stormed the tower. Many of those that went to the top of the tower were trapped but I’m fine. The Lady Sansa, she took me to a hidden spot where we were mostly safe.”

“...She did what?”

“There was a room hidden under the stairs and she took me to it. A wolf and a deadman managed to get in but the bulk of them passed us by.” Missandei bowed her head. “The man was her father. Ned Stark.”

“Her-... her father? He came after you two?”

“He didn’t know her but she knew his face still. When he broke in she stabbed him with a dagger, Your Grace. She saved me.”

Daenerys took a step back, her mind whirling. Sansa saved Missandei. She stabbed her own father in the back to save her, she took her to a hidden spot when she didn’t have to. Missandei walked over to the old dead woman and kneeled before her, taking her cold wrinkled hands in hers. “Lady Sansa called her Old Nan, she was a nursemaid for many Starks for many generations. In all your travels I doubt you would have ever found a more engrossing storyteller.” A shy soft smile rose to her lips. “When Lady Sansa insulted me she defended me, and then she gave up her life so the two of us would not risk ours trying to save her.” Missandei grabbed something on from the floor beside her and brushed the dust from it. “She also said something rather odd in her last moments.”

“What was it?”

“When all this is over, you make sure the little prince gets this.” 

Missandei turned it over in her hand and handed it to Daenerys. The Queen ran her fingers over the stitching, far cruder than Sansas embroidery but it was strong and sturdy, and she knew it would be warm just by the feel of it. It was a thick white and black square with a grey direwolf head inside the three headed crimson dragon stitched into the center. 

“A banner combining yours and Jon’s houses?” Missandei asked, quaking her head, missing the tears rushing to the queens eyes. “It’s rather small for one.”

It was not a banner, Daenerys knew. It was something else. Something much more significant and personal, something the nursemaid must have made dozens of times for dozens of Starks.

A baby blanket.

Daenerys thought back to the boat, to the first time she and Jon were together. She never much cared for tracking her moonblood when she laid with Daario, Jon either, since there was nothing that could come of it.

But the last time it came had been two weeks before Jon, and her strips of cotton she used when she was bleeding sat unused in the bottom of her chest since. She thought of the beautiful face in the flames calling her mhysa, the silky smoothness of the Targaryen hair with Stark coloring, and such dark eyes they may have been either purple or brown. 

She pressed a kiss to Missandei’s cheeks and hurried out of the First Keep, her feet flying on wind and air. Daenerys did not go back to where the healers and maesters were but instead raced to the Godswood where Bran sat there, alone, the bodies of the Ironborn cleared out already. He turned to look at her as she fell on her knees before him as though she were at an alter.

“Tell me,” she whispered to him breathless, clutching the blanket in hand. “You know of what I ask, you know the answer I seek. Tell me the truth. Please.”

Bran closed his eyes and turned back to the tree for a long silent moment, nothing but the sounds of the ravens and the winter blowing in the air.

“‘When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east’,” Brna said, eerily calm, repeating words he had no business knowing as he looked at the white tree. “‘When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. Only then will you bear a living child’. The wall has fallen, it’s ice and snow gone in a blast of wind and freezing fire. The Dothraki sea is empty and dry of it’s keepers but for the dying grass. And the love for the light of the west has been replaced by love for the sun in the east.”   


Bran turned to look at her again. His brown eyes found her face first, and then traveled down to her stomach. “Your son does not ride inside of you as his brother did,” he said softly, his words a gentle whisper in the wind. Bran looked towards the sky and for one half moment she swore she saw him smile. “This time your son howls. This time... your son flies.” 

A strangled cry ripped past her throat as she wept tears of joy, clutching at Brans robes, a million thoughts whirling around her a thousand miles an hour. Pregnant. She was pregnant. With a son, an heir… Jon’s heir.

“You will have a choice,” Bran said, drawing her from her joy. She gazed up to look at him. He was no longer smiling. “Your son's name will echo through the ages, of that I have no doubt. But rather he will be a king, as great a king who ever lived, or a conqueror of worlds whose name strikes fear into the hearts of men and respect into those who would follow in his fiery bleeding wake will be up to you.” His face was stern, and hard. “Choose wisely, Daenerys Stormborn. For the time will soon come when the choices you make for you and your son will shape the fortunes of all…”


	15. Chapter 15

Pregnant. Daenerys was pregnant.

She quickly made her way back to her chambers, hardly seeing anything or anyone in front of her. She was pregnant. With a boy. She was carrying not only another son but an heir, a dragon to carry on her name and legacy, a miracle that was never supposed to come to fruition. 

Daenerys told her staff not to allow anyone to bother her unless it was Jon or an emergency and she shut herself in the sprawling chambers, sitting right down on the floor in front of the marble fireplace and allowing her mind to race and wonder. She was happy. Happier than she had been when she found out about Rheago. Her and Jon’s baby had been made with love, with a willingness to be together since the first day, but she was also afraid. 

Pregnancy left women vulnerable, queens and whores alike. Daenerys knew all too well how just a push from behind could end her hopes and dreams. If she stayed in the North long enough and an angry rebel got it in his mind or if Cersei got ahold of her... She would need to double her guard, only her most trusted Dothraki and Unsullied, she would not care if it looked as though she did not trust the Northmen because quite frankly she did not. Also even if Ser Jaime proved his breaking the vows he swore to her father was needed, she would never trust a Queensguard to protect her or a Kingsguard to guard her son, not now, not ever. She didn’t care if she was breaking with tradition, the Kingsguard of her father proved what their word was worth when it came to Aerys and Rhaella both.

Another fear she had was what Bran had said. Her son would be a king or a conqueror, loved or feared, adored or detested. She needed to know the choice that would cement that decision. She did not want her sons name to be loathed, she wanted her grandsons and their sons to name their sons after him, she wanted history to compare him to Jaehaerys, not Maegor or Aerys, and she shuddered at the thought, wrapping her arms tight around herself as though she could protect him from her own thoughts. 

Daenerys had not begun to change yet, not noticeably at least (and even with Rheago she had not grown too big). But she had noticed her corsets were growing a bit tighter around the chest, and she thought it was just the North’s scents that were so strong rather than her own senses growing. Her face had more blush but again that cold wintery air made every face red…

But none of that mattered now. She was pregnant. She carried a prince inside of her, Jon’s prince. A smile rose to her lips as her hands came up and embraced her flat belly already loving the soul growing inside it with everything she had, already willing to die and kill for him. 

“I’ll protect you,” she whispered to her son. “No witch will take you from me this time. I swear it. I swear it.”

She was not sure how long she stayed down there on the ground sitting before the fireplace but eventually she stood and made her way across the room to lay down on the bed. The sun was still shining bright through the window and she could hear the survivors working to clear the dead away and set up pyres for those who were alive when the night started but were no longer. Daenerys had planned to help with the initial cleanup but the news coupled with the pounding headache that had been growing from the moment she cracked her head against the cold ground after she fell from Drogon made her desires to help with the aftermath far less than what it originally was. Besides, Jon asked her to rest and who was she to deny the father of her child?

 _And future husband_ , she remembered suddenly with a girlish smile that she had not worn in years, remembering the question he asked before the battle. If it were any other man she would thought it was just a spur of the moment thing, something he would regret asking if they both lived. But that was not Jon. She saw the way he looked at her, saw the love and devotion in his eyes when he asked. He wanted to marry her and drape a direwolf cloak around her shoulders and it would be one of the happiest days of their lives.

The queen settled back against the pillow, the face from the flames swimming before her, beautiful and strong and theirs, staying with her even after she drifted off to sleep.

Daenerys dreamt of a tall striking man, his long silky black hair in a single plait and his violet eyes serious and solemn. He was honorable, gentle, brave, fierce, strong… He was fair but just, firm in his decisions but willing to listen to the council of all. He was everything a man should be. He was everything a king should be. 

At his hip he carried Longclaw, the plain leather scabbard and the white wolf head on the pommel a shocking contradiction to the fine supple black and red leathers he wore. The three headed sigil of the Targaryens on his chest was made of blood red rubies, and clasped around his shoulder was a fur cloak with two snarling direwolf heads embroidered long ago on the cross crossed leather straps. On his arm was a tall thin woman, an inch or so taller than him, looking at the man in unending love and sheer reverence with the most striking blue eyes Daenerys had ever seen. 

A tiara of sapphires and golden lion heads sat atop her mane of long blonde curls, and she wore a stunning gown of cobalt and crimson silk that did little in the way of improving a rather straight lined figure but when he caught her tender gaze and smiled, Daenerys knew it was love, and that a lack of any real feminine curves was the last thing the boy cared about. 

The man kneeled before a Septon in the throne room of the Red Keep, and Daenerys watched as he anointed him in oils and blessed him with holy words. A crown of black metal flames and sharp dragon wings adorned with black gemstones and rubies was placed upon his handsome brow and when the Septon was done the man rose to the cheering and celebration of Highborn lords and small folk alike, and outside the keep his mother’s dragon, now his, sang in celebration.

The throne room melted away in a shimmer of blood red flames. The cheering was replaced by screaming, the jubilancy was replaced by terror. They were still in King’s Landing, and the boy was still just as beautiful, just as strong, just as fierce but there was no joy or love held for him by the people. Only fear. His long black hair was rippling in the wind as he rode Drogon, bathing the city in fire and blood, burning the good and bad indiscriminately. Below the Dothraki savaged the ones who tried to run, forcing them back into the inferno and slaughtering the ones who refused to comply. He landed on the grand stairs of the Red Keep and surveyed the carnage spread out before him, smiling. 

He wore Longclaw but a roaring black dragon head replaced the white wolf on the pommel and it was sheathed in a sleek black leather scabbard, and a dragon scale cloak held on by a three headed dragon pin fluttered in the wind. He was all dragon, all Targaryen, rejecting any of his Northern heritage. He hated the North, he hated Westeros, he hated the Westerosi... 

_You brought this on yourself_ , he thought to himself as he watched the city burn and listened to the screams of the men and women. _I will win this country for you,_ he promised as Drogon screamed a jet of fire a thousand feet in the air; hungry for the taste of traitors and enemies. _I will make them bend, I will make them break, I will slaughter them the way they tried to do to us… I will bathe them all in fire and blood._

_I will burn them all._

The Queen sat up in bed gasping, her hand flying to her breast as tears of either terror or ecstasy fell down her cheek, she couldn’t be sure of which. 

“Daenerys?” a soft voice called to her and for a moment she thought she might’ve still been dreaming but then she felt calloused gentle hands stroking her hair. “You alright?” Jon asked as she turned to him.

She swallowed hard and nodded. “It was a… a dream. A nightmare. A beautiful nightmare… both of them at once, I suppose.” Daenerys sniffed away the last of her tears and cleared her throat. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you I would come to you after things had calmed down. You were resting when I came in, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Right… right, yes of course.” She ran a hand through her disheveled hair. “Are there any counts so far?”

“We’re still sorting out the ones who died for us and those who came to Winterfell already dead but it doesn’t look like any company went unscathed. How are your dragons?”

“Rheagal is going to take a little while to heal and Drogon is quite upset at what happened but they’ll both live to see another day.”

Jon smiled, and took hold of her hand. “Good.” His smile fell as soon as it came though and a scowl replaced it. “The Northern lords are upset. The reason why they need to wait twice as long for a Maester and can’t be treated by your healers is making its way through the ranks. None are happy with Sansa and they demand I overrule my sister, but I told them no, that it was Sansa’s decision and you said it was up to the healers to choose and you would not give the order, so now they’re angry at all three of us.”

Daenerys couldn't help but chuckle as she laced his fingers in hers. “Well you did say you wanted them to treat us as they do Sansa…”

The corners of his lips tugged upwards. “I guess I better word my wishes better next time.” He sighed and stroked her long white hair. “Father made ruling look so easy.”

“I’m sure it was easy when your best friend was the man claiming to be king and your entire country revered you in such a manner that they were willing to go to war to avenge you.”

“He was a summer Lord,” Jon agreed. “We are winter rulers.”

“It will be summer again,” Daenerys promised, taking him in her arms. “You’ll see.”

“It will…” Jon held her tight. “But when the flowers start to bloom, who will the Lords demand sits on the throne?”

Daenerys swallowed hard. “Me,” she said, voice trembling slightly. “Because nobody else has to know your secret.”

Jon’s face fell but he did not loosen his grip. “Daenerys… I need to tell them.”

“I am so happy that I found a family,” she whispered. “It is all I’ve ever wanted, even before a crown. But if you tell others that you are the true heir to the throne, they will force you to press your claim.”

“I will refuse.”

“You refused the title of King in the North.”

“This is different,” he said sharply.

“Yes, the last living male heir to the North gets named King in the North while a woman who would kill for the title sits besides you, it’s all _very_ different,” Daenerys spat, throwing off her furs and storming out of bed. Hot angry tears rushed to her eyes. 

“Two people already know,” she said, yanking on her silk robe. “If anymore people know-.”

“Three,” Jon muttered. 

She whipped back around, eyes wide. “What did you say?” 

“Three people know. Not two.”

“Who else did you tell? Arya? _Sansa?!_ ”

“Neither!” He climbed out of the bed as well. “Jaime Lannister, he knows.”

A searing hot rage filled her. Her hands curled into fists and her nails dug into her palms. In the distance she could hear Drogon screaming. “You told the Kingslayer?” she said, voice trembling in anger. 

“I didn’t!” he insisted, and she believed him. “I swear to the Old Gods and the New I didn’t say anything! I don’t know how but he knew I was Rhaegar's son. He told me in the Godswood he said he would keep his vow to protect Rhaegar's children. Bran must have told him to get him to stay and fight with me rather than tend to Brienne.” 

Tears spilled over her eyes and he hurried over to take her in his arms but she pushed him away. “It’s over,” she whispered, clutching at his jerkin. “It’s all over, Jaime’s going to tell his brother and it will be over. Tyrion, he… he does not love me as he once did, not since the Tarly’s…”

“He won’t tell,” Jon promised. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“How?” she demanded, voice trembling. 

“I will threaten Tyrion, Cersei, Brienne; anyone I have to to keep his silence.”

More tears flowed down her face. “And who will you threaten to keep Sansa silent? She is not a child anymore, Jon, she isn’t the starry eyed girl you grew up with. Not after what she’s seen, not after what they’ve done to her.”

“She still deserves to know the truth about her father.”

“She HATES me!” she cried. “Once Sansa knows the truth she will see me devoured by dogs with you on the throne in the south and her on the throne in the north!”

“Then I will see her beheaded!” 

Jon took her by the arms and pressed a deep searing kiss to her lips. Daenerys’ legs trembled and grew weak but he held her tight in his arms. “So long as there is breath in my body, _no one_ will hurt you, and I would kill any man or woman who tries.” His voice was a low growl and it sent a wave of fire throughout her. Jon’s face softened and he stroked a long silver strand from her tear stained face. “I love you, Dany. But they are also my family.” 

“Jon!”

“I owe them the truth!”

“And what do you owe your son?!”

He stepped back from her, not saying anything. His jaw dropped and his eyes fell to her stomach. Daenerys swallowed hard and placed her hands on her belly. “Bran confirmed it,” she whispered. “I don’t know how but the curse the witch put on me was lifted. Something about the wall being the mountain and someone no longer loving the light of the west, I know it to be true. I’m pregnant.”

It was the first time she said the words out loud, and they filled her with a bright joy she never thought she would feel again after Rheago. Jon said nothing. He just stood there, his breath heavy, his hands trembling. “It’s a boy,” she continued. “A son, he-.”

“A son?” Tears filled his eyes and his lip trembled, his voice nothing more than a choked whisper. “You-...you’re carrying a son? My s- son?”

Daenerys nodded and he covered his mouth with his hand, taking a step back and fumbling to grab onto the table to keep himself standing. “Jon?” she asked, taking a careful step towards him. “Are you alright? I didn’t think this would happen. Ever. I know you said not to trust her, but I-.”

She was cut off as he stumbled towards her before taking her in his arms and kissing her. He kissed her face all over, her lips, her jaw, her eyelids, everywhere he could reach as he wept. He wrapped her in an iron grip, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around and around. “You’re pregnant!” he cried, finally, and she laughed as she wrapped her arms around him, unwilling to let the last few minutes ruin this moment for her. 

Jon fell to his knees before bed and bowed his head, quickly muttering an old northern prayer of thanks she did not know the language of before he turned his gaze to her. His eyes were bright with tears and joy and astonishment and awe. “I love you,” he said, voice trembling as much as his hands. “I love you, I- I love him… my son.” A wide smile, as happy as she’d ever seen him before. “My son… I have a son.”

“You do.” She reached down and took hold of his hand, placing it on her stomach. Daenerys could feel the love pouring out in waves as he cradled her belly. “We have a son, we have an heir.”

Jon shook his head, sniffing away his tears. “Don’t call him that. An heir. He’s so much more than that, so much more… Our son...” Tears filled Daenerys eyes that she couldn’t even begin to explain as she nodded eagerly. “Do you know his name?”

“Not yet. It needs to be perfect, it needs to fit him. I want to wait to see him. But do you see now? Why you can’t tell anyone?” His beaming smile fell with a crash. “If they hurt him-.”

“Sansa wouldn’t hurt a child,” he said firmly, without a hint of hesitation as he stood from the ground. “Ever. Especially not one of her own kin. She is not that far gone, she’s _not_ , Daenerys.” 

“I believe you.” 

And she did. There was still a softness and humanity in Sansa that was fighting to come to the surface of the thick much Cersei and Littlefinger poisoned her with. She saw it when she spoke about her mother the night of the dinner before she lost her temper, she saw it in her eyes as Brienne lay dying. If she was that far gone she wouldn’t have stabbed her own father in the back to save Missandei. 

“She would never harm a child _directly_ ,” Daenerys clarified. “But if she tells someone who believes you would make the better ruler? We’ve seen how her choices end up hurting people she does not mean to hurt.”

Jon wrapped his arms around her and pulling her closer. “I will never put him in danger,” he said. “Ever. If anything this might persuade Sansa to keep quiet.”

“And if it doesn’t? If she believes she can keep you and our son safe, you don’t think she’ll tell?” 

He sighed and moved a piece of hair from her face. “Let’s not fight anymore,” he begged and Daenerys scoffed, meaning to turn away from him but he took hold of her hand and pulled her back to him. “I mean it. If I tell them it won’t be tonight or even tomorrow, why let it ruin this moment?”

“So you’re saying you won’t say anything?”

“I’m saying _if_ I don’t. But right I don’t want to think about my sister or the North or the throne or the war or anything else. I just wanna enjoy right now with the mother of my child.” Daenerys sighed and nodded, resigned to let it go for now. He kissed her softly and pulled her in close. “I love you,” he whispered to her, combing his fingers through her long silver hair. “All I want is to be happy with you.”

 _We can be if you just listen to me,_ she thought bitterly as she swayed in his arms, the image of her son standing before a burning city, an act of righteous vengeance for a crime committed against his mother, an act of a true dragon, clear and beautiful and terrifying ringing in her mind...


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear LORD that’s a lot of reviews for last chapter! I promise to get to as many of you as I can! Thank you SOO much for your feedback, this is my first fic, and I really am taking a lot of your suggestions to heart and am learning and I really hope you guys are liking this fic as much as I’m enjoying writing it ❤️

**Daenerys**

The sun was going down, and the warm glow of twilight bathed her room in soft pale dying light. The flames of the fireplace burned brighter and brighter with every passing moment that the natural light left them. The hours had passed since their discussion and it hung over them like a heavy storm, and they were forcing their eyes to see the sunshine hidden behind the dark and gloomy clouds.

They laid in her bed holding one another, neither of them eager to interrupt this moment with news of death or decay or politics. For a minute, just one minute, they wanted to pretend they were like any other ordinary family celebrating their news together.

“Aegon?”

“Not Aegon. There’s been five of them, a sixth is just excessive.”

Jon chuckled as he combed her long silver hair with a soft methodical movement that could have lulled her to sleep if she were not careful. “That’s a fair point. Jaehaerys?”

“He’d have a LOT to live up to.”

“Brandon? A strong ancient Northern name belonging to the Targaryen House. It’ll be a sign of unity.”

“A good idea but we face the same problem as we would if we named him Aegon.” She turned in his arms. “How many Brandon’s have ruled in the North, fifty? A hundred?”

“Alright them what about Rhaegar? After your brother and my… the man responsible for my birth.”

Daenerys shook her head. “My first son was named for him.” Her voice was soft and distant. She was far away in a tent that never really existed stroking the cheek of a copper skinned babe with violet eyes. “It’ll feel too much like I’m trying to replace Rhaego if I name another boy for Rheagar again.”

Jon kissed the top of her hair and held her tighter. “I’m sorry. I should have thought before I spoke.”

She cuddled closer to him. “You didn’t know. I rarely speak his name, even to myself. I’ve suffered so much loss in my life but I’ve never mourned anyone as much as I’ve mourned a boy I never even held.” Tears filled her eyes that she quickly wiped away. “The Dothraki believe that if you die before you ever sit a horse you’re reborn to a new Dothraki family rather than join your ancestors in the stars.”

“Which fate brings you the most comfort?” he asked her. “That he was reincarnated or that he’s resting amongst the stars?”

Daenerys thought for a moment. She always abhorred the idea of Rhaego calling a weaker Dothraki 'father’ and loathed the thought of another woman feeding him from her breast. She dared not ever contradict the horse lords who tried to comfort her with promises that her son would be reborn, knowing they would take offense to her dislike of their beliefs about death. 

“It brings me comfort to think he’s up there with my first husband,” she finally said, almost ashamed to finally voice the words she never dared say aloud before. “It makes me smile to think he’s learning to ride and hunt from the greatest Khal who ever lived.”

“Then that is where Rheago is,” Jon said with so much certainty she was almost forced to believe him. “He is by Drogo’s side right now, riding astride a beautiful Dothraki stallion in the night sky, being loved and protected by his father while he waits for you to join him.”

More tears filled her eyes that Jon brushed away with a tender touch, pulling her lips to his. A soft knock on the door interrupted them and Jon groaned in protest as Daenerys got up from the bed.

“You can always tell them we’re not here,” he said as he leaned back against the headboard and Daenerys just smiled before she opened the door to one of the northern guards.

“Forgive me, ya Grace,” he said in a strong thick northern accent with a quick bow of his head. “I was told I might find M’lord here.”

“What do you need?” Jon asked as he climbed from the bed, and Daenerys was grateful for the fact that ten minutes prior he had pulled on his trousers when he went to feed wolf to the fire. The man gave Jon another bow. 

“M’lord, we have the counts of the survivors. If ya want I can wait until you’re more suitable but I thought you’d wanna know.” 

Daenerys beckoned the man into the chambers, and after hesitating, he had never even seen the Great Lords chambers much left been invited inside, he walked in, pulling out a slip of parchment from his pockets with trembling hands. “28,000/53,000 Dothraki remain,” he began with a nervous glance towards Daenerys as if fearing he might blame her for delivering the news. She glared not at the man but at the fact if those with straight edged swords had arakhs instead...Jon reached out and rubbed her shoulder and that helped soothe her rage somewhat. “33,000/60,000 Northmen,” the man continued, and Daenerys wrapped her arms around the dark haired man. “14,000/33,000 Wildlings, 9,000/13,000 Unsullied, 11,000/24,000 Valesman, 2,300/4,000 Tarth soldiers-.”

“Lord Selwyn,” Daenerys interrupted. “Is he alright?”

“He is.” She gave a sigh of relief not only for the promise of troops but because another of her family had survived. “Lord Selwyn took a nasty blow to the leg when he fell from the ramparts but he seemed more insistent on seeing his daughter then getting care for his injury.”

“How many of the women and children made it out of the tower?” Jon asked.

“Most of um, M’lord. The dead crashed through their doors not even minutes before they fell, they didn’t have much time to attack, and many of um found hiding places.”

Jon couldn’t help but smile. “Any nook and cranny you see in there can be used as a hiding spot. That’s why every Stark in the last thousand years has used the First Keep to play hide and seek.” He gnawed at his lip. “Almost as if Brandon designed it that way… How many of the Nightswatch remains?” 

“Just under three hundred, M’lord. But there were only a thousand or so that fought…”

Daenerys took him by his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. “Is there anything else?”

“No, Ya Grace. Now we’re just separating their dead from ours and building the pyres. Should be done by late afternoon tomorrow if we work through the night.”

“Don't bother separating them,” Jon said. “They were all Wildlings and Northmen; women, men, children... None of them wanted to fight in the army of the dead, just like none of ours who fell wanted to rise up and fight against their brothers. Put them all on the pyres if you can.”

“Yes, M’lord.” He bowed to Daenerys again. “Ya Grace.” 

“I should go and help,” Jon said when he left, pulling on his shirt. “There's gonna be a lot of pyres built, lots of moving bodies…”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No it’s fine.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Just stay here and rest.”

Daenerys raised her brow. “I can still help move the bodies. A pregnant Khaleesi is expected to ride and work and walk right up until the moment she gives birth, less she insults Khal by being weak. Besides I’m not even showing yet.”

“In Westeros a pregnant Queen rests, with a world of servants at her disposal so she doesn’t have to risk injury to her prince. Besides I am no Khal. I assure you it will be no insult to me if you take a day or so to rest after falling off a dragon pregnant.” His face fell. “You… you don’t think that hurt the baby? If it did I swear to all the Gods-.”

“No. Our son is strong. He’s full of fire, he’s full of life.” The Queen smiled. “Our little dragon.”

Jon rested his hand on her belly and chuckled. “Our little nameless dragon…” He kissed her, caressing her stomach as though she was made of glass. “Please just stay here and rest?

She sighed and threw her hands in the air. “Fine. But when you send servants to carry me in a litter to the privy is where I draw the line.”

He laughed before he nodded, beaming at his Queen. “Noted.” Jon finished getting dressed, and took her in his arms when he was done. “Stay safe, Your Grace. I’ll be back to check on you later.”

One last kiss and he was gone, shutting the door behind him. When she was all alone Daenerys called for a bottle of sugar water and lemons to be sent up and afterwards she sat in front of the fireplace, watching the flames until they were nothing but glowing embers, and the sun had dipped low under the stars. A knock of her door pulled her attention away and when she answered Missandei was there with a tray of food. “Your Grace, I’ve brought your supper up.” She moved out of the way to allow her in, lighting the fire again and motioning for her to join her. “Roasted leg of lamb with garlic and butter potatoes.”

“I will say this for Winterfell, their cooks know how to deliver. We should be thankful they don’t hate our presence here as well.”

Missandei chuckled as she sat down opposite Daenerys. “Agreed, your Grace. Grey Worm is going to grow fat with all the boar ribs he’s eaten.”

“Boar…” Daenerys mouth grew wet and her stomach twisted with such an intense want that it almost pained her. “Boar sounds absolutely delicious. Ribs, wrapped in bacon. And perhaps a chop or two.”

“Do you want me to go and tell the cooks to make you something else?”

“No no, don’t trouble them after they made us this meal. Ask our cooks instead.”

“At once, Your Grace.” Missandei stood and began to clear the plate away. “Forgive me for the questions but I’ve never known you to turn down lamb before. Is everything alright?”

“It is,” she promised. A slow smile spread to her lips as she embraced her belly. “It’s perfect, actually. I just have a craving for boar.”

Her adviser's eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped. Daenerys giggled, a sound she hadn’t made in years. “Truly?”

“I found out this morning.”

Missandei threw her arms around her and soon the two women were laughing and smiling. “I’m so happy for you, Your Grace, you and Jon both! But the witch-.”

“Her words were poison but the sting faded away. I’m pregnant, with a king.”

“We must celebrate! A feast that would rival any other!”

“Thank you, my closest friend, but you must tell no one. You and Jon are the only ones who know so far, and I need to keep it secret, just for a while. Until we’re out of the North and away from our enemies.”

Missandei’s face fell. “So you  _ do _ consider the North the enemy.”

“Not so much as Cersei but I do not consider them friends. Sansa especially.”

“You saved their lives, without your dragon or your armies they never would have stood a chance. Surely they can’t hate you any longer.”

“And now I will be asking them to fight in my war while taking away their independence.”

“We fought in their war, they will fight in yours. That was the deal.”

“I’m afraid they won’t see it like that. They do not care who sits on the Iron Throne, they want to be independent. It doesn’t matter if they fight for me or Cersei, they’ll see it as fighting for a foreign woman to rule a foreign country.”

“We lost thousands of our men protecting their home, Dothraki and Unsullied,” she said with stubborn loyalty. “Now it is their turn to fight for your home, rather they see it as theirs or not.”

“They will.” Daenerys sat back down and stared at the growing flames. “If not they will pay the consequences.”

“And what will those consequences be?”

The face of her son was back in the fire. His eyes were glowing a beautiful wonderful violet. “If they refuse; they will suffer the same fate of all who go against the dragon…”

**Brienne**

The bear pit was covered with snow, and the bear's eyes were a cold dead blue. Brienne cried as she tried to climb out of the pit but it was slicked in ice and she kept slipping and falling. The dead men in the audience were laughing at her misery.

“My sword!” she cried as she struggled to climb. “My sword, please! Jaime said it was mine! Give me my sword!”

She needed her sword, she couldn’t fight without her sword. Jaime gave it to her, he trusted her with his sword. He trusted her with his honor. 

“Freak!” one hissed. “Freak!”

“Stop!” she begged as she fell to the ground after slipping on a slick patch of ice, wincing as she landed on the ice cold snow and she shivered. 

She was so cold. So cold…

“A beauty, a beauty! Brienne the beauty!” Jaime shouted down at her. He was devastatingly beautiful, a golden god with two good hands, and his smile was as cold as the dead men.

Brienne began to weep when she realized her clothes and armor was gone, and she tried desperately to cover her nakedness with her hands.

“She’s a beast!” Jaime roared with cruel laughter and a sharp grin as he pointed at her. “A freak! A beauty!”

“A beauty, a beauty!” they were all chanting now, and Brienne covered her ears but nothing could drown them out. She shivered in the cold. “A beauty, a beauty!”

“A beauty.” One voice rang above them all, and when she lifted her head she saw Bran standing there in the pit with her, emotionless, plain and free of expression. “You are a beauty,” he said in a monotone voice. “Younger, and far more beautiful then the Queen could ever hope to be…”

“Help me,” Brienne begged the young wolf. “Please!” But he ignored her and turned away. The bear charged, and everything went black.

She gasped as her eyes flew open. It took a moment to realize where she was, her room in Winterfell and another second to remember what happened. She shivered. She was still so cold...

“Brienne!” a voice called out, and then he was there, kneeling besides her bed. She turned and saw Jaime, who looked as though he was close to weeping with relief. “You’re okay… You’re okay. Gods I was so scared, I thought… But you’re okay now.”

“Jaime…” Her voice choked with misuse and something else. Something she was too afraid to admit even to herself. 

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here, you’re gonna be alright.”

She sat up in the bed and pulled the blanket around her tighter. “Did we win? Did we-...?”

“Jon Snow killed the bastard. It’s all over.”

A sense of relief flooded her but it didn’t last for long. “Is Lady Sansa okay?”

“She is,” he said darkly, as though wishing the answer wasn’t what he gave. Brienne didn’t push for an explanation for his sudden sour mood and he didn’t provide one. 

“Did your brother survive? My father?”

“They’re both fine. Your father broke his leg but he’s okay. I finally sent him to go get a meal, he’s been with you since yesterday.”

Her eyes went wide. “Yesterday? What time is it, how long have I been out?!” She yanked off the blanket and went to sit up. “I need to see Sansa.”

“Brienne, relax. The pup can handle herself for a few hours.”

“I’m fine but I need to ask her what she needs, I need to see to Podrick, I-.” Her face fell. For a moment she had forgotten. Jaime reached out and rubbed her shoulder, as tears welled in her eyes. 

“He died doing the greatest duty a squire can do for his knight.” His voice was as soft as a gentle breeze. “Pod died protecting you. I can think of no other way he’d have rather gone out.”

“I promised him he would be a knight,” she sniffed. “I promised him he would wear the title one day.”

“I’m so sorry, My Lady. If I could do anything to bring him back…”

“I just wish I could have protected him the way he protected me.”

“You did. He told me in King’s Landing how often you would ride in on your horse and rescue him. You’re the reason he survived as long as he did.”

“I know… And now I’m the reason he’s gone.” Tears fell from her eyes that she hurried to wipe away but they kept falling over and over and without warning Jaime wrapped her in his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder as he held her tight, whispering sweet comforts in her ear as she wept for her squire.

It felt nice to be comforted the way a woman often sought comfort from a man. Brienne thought about returning to Jaime once when she was on the road when she had no idea where to find Sansa, to give the sword back and confess her failures. She thought about how she would weep on his shoulder and he would embrace her like all the knights did to maidens in the songs and stories she adored, the way he was doing now. That was what men wanted, wasn’t it? Soft helpless women that they needed to protect?

But she would always think about how she wasn’t worthy of such comforts, she wasn’t worthy of being treated like a woman, much less a pretty maiden by the most handsome man she had ever seen. It was that thought that made her pull away now. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, sniffing the rest of her tears away. He appeared to look as disappointed as she felt at the lack of touch but she was sure it was just a show for her. “I’m being childish.”

“You’re upset your squire is dead. If anything you should still be weeping.” In the glow of the firelight he looked soft and beautiful and golden and everything Brienne could never be. “I’m sorry you lost him.”

“Thank you, Ser Jaime.”

“You know,” he half purred. “We fought the dead together with flaming swords and saw each other the way the Gods made us when we were together in Harrenhal. I think it’s time we’ve moved past formal titles.”

A warm blush painted her cheeks as she remembered the way he came walking through the steam of the bathhouse looking half a corpse and half a god. “Okay,” she muttered, and then she added, “Jaime.” 

The name fell easy from her tongue, as though it had been made to say it. It was a pretty name, just like everything else about him. Even the way it was spelled fit him well. 

Jaime smiled and the sight of it sent her heart fluttering. How could the gods bless one man with so much beauty? “That wasn’t so bad was it?”

“It wasn’t  _ too _ terrible,” she said and he chuckled. His bright green eyes searched over her face and his smile fell slightly. 

“I never noticed how much your hair curls when you sleep on it. It looks quite good on you.” Brienne blushed crimson and she quickly turned her gaze towards her blankets, suddenly feeling quite self conscious. “I should have noticed it when we were out on the road but…”

“We were too busy hating one another,” she finished for him in a mutter and he nodded slowly.

“I was rather cruel wasn’t I?” She shrugged and didn’t answer. “Can you forgive me?”

“You never said anything that wasn’t true.”

“It was  _ all _ untrue, Brienne,” he said, and if she didn’t know better she would have thought he sounded offended on her behalf. “That’s why I’m apologizing. Well… not all of it was a lie.” She braced herself for the insult but he just smirked, and his next words were a lions purr. “Even with one hand I’m strong enough.” 

Brienne rolled her eyes and he chuckled again. “You’re impossible.”

“Hmm, but you put up with me.”

“Reluctantly,” she said dryly, but that just encouraged his smile to grow. A knock on the door interrupted the two and Jaime went to answer it.

“What do you need, Snow?” he asked the caller.

“I need to speak to you,” Jon answered.

“What about?”

“A private matter.”

Jaime shrugged, as though the Warden of the North asking for an audience was of some minor insignificance. “I’m not leaving Lady Brienne alone, she just woke up from her injury. Come back in a few hours.”

“With all due respect, Ser Jaime, I’m not asking. It’ll only take a minute or two.”

Jaime quirked a brow before he turned back to Brienne. “Are you okay being alone for a bit?”

“I am, Jaime, thank you,” she said quickly, not wanting to be the cause of any strife. “I should probably get washed up anyway.”

After Jaime left with Jon she climbed out of her bed and shuddered at the chill in the room. Her teeth chattered as she made her way to the fireplace and fed it full of logs until the fire was blazing, and she sunk into a chair beside it, letting the warmth wash over her. Once she was warmed up some she stood in front of the looking glass and peeled off her clothes, flinching at all the new and old ugly bruises and scars that littered her body and the clean gauze that covered her shoulder, sloppily applied as though a man with one hand had changed her bandages. Brienne frowned as she looked at her reflection. Everything about her was unattractive, manly, ungainly. Her breasts were small, her hips and thighs were thick, and her figure was more of a straight line than anything feminine. 

_ You’re fooling yourself,  _ the voice of her septa, the cruel boys from her youth, and her own self told her. Jaime could never want this, he could never covet this. No man could but especially not him. Not when he had the most beautiful woman in the world waiting for him back in King’s Landing. Cersei probably spent every night since he left on her knees praying for his safe return. She probably wept every night since he left because her bed was empty and he was no longer there to share it, she had probably sent half a hundred Ravens, at least one a day, from the day he left King’s Landing asking after him. 

Or at least that’s what Brienne would have done if Jaime were hers.

She turned away from the mirror, unable to stand her reflection any longer. There was an intricate set of pipes that allowed the hot water from the springs to go directly into the rooms so she filled her tub with water that was near boiling and stepped in. She wanted nothing more than to simply sit and relax and allow the hot water to work the kinks from her muscles but the sun was rising, and she had already spent a whole day abed. So she washed the sweat and grime and blood from her as quickly as she could before she climbed out and dressed herself. Brienne decided against slicking her hair back and instead let it stay in its natural curly state, and allowed it to fall into her face. 

After she pulled on her boots and her armor, she went to buckle her sword belt around her waist which is when she noticed the strange light emitting from the scabbard. She drew her sword and gasped as half of it was engulfed in a strong bright silvery blue fire. The flames shimmered as she moved the sword back and forth. She thought that the light would have gone out when the dead were defeated, but apparently there was still a battle she had to fight.

Her dream came to mind again, and she shuddered at the way Bran had looked at her. He had seemed so real, like he wasn’t part of the dream. And the way he called her beautiful wasn’t mocking. He almost sounded genuine. He didn’t call her beautiful in a way she dreamt about a man calling her beautiful, but it was as if he were simply stating a fact that should have been obvious to anyone. 

She shook her head and sheathed her flaming sword. 

Brienne was not beautiful. Brienne was not anywhere close to being beautiful. It was just a dream, it didn’t mean anything. The tall maid would never be beautiful to anyone, and certainly not compared to Cersei. Brienne was younger than her yes but she would never be more beautiful...   



	17. Chapter 17

Jon led Jaime to a small private room, his mind whirling the whole while. As far as the men he asked knew Jaime had stayed by Brienne’s side since the moment they carried her into the castle. Even when Havi dubbed her stable and asked to have her moved to her room Jaime hadn’t left, much less ran off to tell Tyrion or Varys or anyone the truth about what he knew. 

“What?” Jaime demanded when Jon closed the door behind them. “What's so important it couldn’t wait?”

“I needed to talk to you.”

“About?”

“About what you know,” said Jon. “About me.”

Jaime nodded slowly. “You mean what I know about you being Rheagar and Lyanna’s son.”

“Yes. It’s true, all of it. Bran wasn’t lying.”

“I figured he wasn’t.” He searched over Jon’s face. “You look all Stark, but there's Targaryen in you if you know what to look for. The shape of the eyes, the cheekbones… Ned Stark’s lucky the North was so dominant; purple eyes and silver hair would have been harder to explain to the wife and to Robert. His best friend would have murdered you if he knew Rhaegar's son lived, much less a bastard he forced into Lyanna that killed her on the birthing bed.”

“It wasn’t rape,” he muttered. “He annulled his marriage to Elia and married Lyanna in Dorne.”

He could see the wheels turning in his mind, and finally the realization clicked. “You’re not a bastard, Jaime said slowly, as if he were piecing it together word by word. “You’re trueborn.”

“I am. And you cannot tell anyone. No one, not Tyrion, not Brienne, certainly not your sister…”

Jaime chuckled, but Jon found little humor in the sound. “Believe it or not, gossiping about the son of a long dead prince isn’t exactly high on my priority list.”

“I mean it.” His voice was as sharp as he could make it, and it infuriated him beyond belief that Lannister stood there looking rather amused at it all. “If you tell a single soul-.”

“You’ll what?” Jaime was no longer smiling. “What will you do Snow? Or whatever the hell your name is?”

“If you tell anyone,” he said, his voice a low growl in his throat. “It’ll hurt the woman I love. If you hurt the woman I love… I will hurt the woman you love.” 

A flash of fire blazed in the emerald of his eyes. He rested his flesh hand on the hilt of his sword and gripped it tight, with Jon doing the same. “Careful, Lannister,” he warned. Then he remembered, “you swore a vow-.”

“Didn't anyone tell you?” He cut him off as sharp as steel. “My son released me from the Kingsguard, and any vows I took with it became null and void.”

“Then why did you stay with me in the Godswood?” he demanded. “Why did you fight with me?”

“Because I wanted to live another day to eat and breathe and love and fuck and I knew you couldn’t beat the Nightking without me.” 

He was lying. Jon knew he was lying, he could see it in his eyes. Jaime still held true to the oaths he swore, he still wanted to do right by the prince and the promises he made, even if right now he was mad enough to pretend not to. 

“I mean what did you think, Snow? You think because we fought one battle together that makes us friends? Or allies? You think I’ll bend my knee to you, call you ‘Your Grace’, tell you stories about your father and pledge the Lannister army to your just and mighty cause? Why are you so concerned about whether I tell anyone or not anyway?” Jaime demanded. “You aren’t afraid you’ll lose the North, you’ve no plans to stick around here. If people find out you lose the stigma of the title bastard and it puts Ned Stark back in front running for the most honorable man Westeros has ever known. So why don’t you want the world to know?”

“I have my reasons.”

Jaime looked at him for a long moment before his lips curled into a smug smile. “If Rheagar and Lyanna were married… that makes you the one true king of Westeros, and it leaves your Queen out in the cold. Or at least standing beside the Iron Throne while you sit on it, and I doubt Daenerys ‘bend or burn’ Targaryen is keen on taking a back seat.”

His hands curled into a dangerous fist. “Daenerys is the Queen. Men have chosen to lead her.”

“Not according to the laws of inheritance. Actually, by right of conquest neither one of you has any more right to the throne than the stable boy. So all this is a moot point anyway.”

“Your sister-.” 

“Has no business on the throne,” Jaime spat, more angry at the truth of the words than at Jon for forcing him to speak them. “Any fool can see that. But she is the legal queen, and when she burns men alive at least she doesn’t pretend to be righteous about it.”

“Your brother burned men alive on the Blackwater,” Jon reminded him sharply. “Thousands of men and ships he burned with wildfire. He said it was for the good of the realm.”

Jaime pursed his lips. “Who says I’ve forgiven him for that? Fire,” the lion snarled, as though he forgot Jon was there. “It’s a coward's weapon as much as poison. That’s all Targaryens who fight with fire are; cowards. They refuse to fight with steel so they use flames because they know there’s nothing that can beat that.”

“Trust me, Lannister, I can fight with steel as well.”

Jaime’s lips curled into a deadly smile. “So you’re considering yourself a Targaryen now?”

“So what if I am?”

Jaime shrugged. “Nothing. It just seems like you’ve forgotten where my nickname came from. I’m the most famous dragon slayer in all the realm. If you’re going to be calling yourself a dragon, perhaps you should remember that.” He started to walk out and Jon grabbed him by the arm and yanked Jaime round to face him. Jaime was a whole head taller but the way Jon was feeling right now he could have taken on the mountain. 

“I mean it, Lannister,” he said sharply. “If you tell a single soul-.”

“Oh relax!” Jaime spat, yanking his arm away. “I don’t care which dragon sits on the bloody throne, and I don’t care whatever legalities put’s your ass or hers in that stupid ugly iron chair! The first one of you that can pry it from Cersei’s cold dead fingers is welcome to it!” 

He turned to leave but before he did he looked back to him. There was no amusement in his eyes, nothing but a sharp valyrian steel edge. This was not a threat he made, it was a promise. “By the way, _your Grace_ , if you ever threaten Brienne in front of me again I’ll slit your fucking throat.”

Jon blinked. He hadn’t threatened Brienne, he threatened Cersei. He threatened the woman Jaime loved.

Without so much as another look he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. Jon allowed him a chance to get a ways away before he headed to Daenerys’ chambers. Jon smiled as he shut the door behind him and leaned against it, watching her sleep. The early morning sun was bathing her in a soft glow that was almost ethereal, and she looked so young, so beautiful, so incredibly peaceful. One hand rested under her pillow and the other was draped across her stomach, protecting their son even in rest. It was the most enchanting and breathtaking sight he ever saw. 

Jon walked over to her and kneeled by her bedside, stroking her long silver hair and pushing a lock of it from her face. One eyes fluttered halfway open and when she met his gaze a tired smile graced the room.

“Morning,” he whispered. “Did you sleep well?”

“There was too little of it.” She yawned as soft as a morning breeze. “Have you had any sleep at all?”

“Not yet. I’ve been moving bodies, building pyres all night. I just wanted to take a break and come see you.”

“You’ve been working all night? When was the last time you slept?”

He thought for a moment. “The day before the battle.”

“... Jon that was two days ago.”

“Yes.”

Daenerys sighed as rolled over, closing her eyes. “Get some sleep,” she muttered into her pillow.

“Actually I was wondering if my Queen wanted to come stand on the balcony and look at a sunrise with me. You get a beautiful view from this room, the way the light glistens off the snow is just magnificent.”

“Would that require leaving the bed to go stand out in the cold in nothing but a sleep gown and a robe?”

He smiled. “It would, yes.”

“Then no thank you.”

Jon laughed before he kissed her on her forehead and stood, but she reached out for his hand, grabbing at his sleeve before he could walk away. “Come to bed,” she said. “Your Queen commands it.”

“Who can say no to an order from the Queen?” He stripped himself of his clothes and his boots until he was in his small clothes and crawled in under the covers, taking the Queen in his arms. Immediately the cold of the room and the North all seemed to melt away with the feel of her warmth.

“I talked to the Kingslayer.”

“Mmm,” she answered without opening her eyes and cuddling closer to him. 

“He won’t tell anyone. I made sure of it.”

“Mmm,” she answered again in what he hoped was approval. 

“I’m starting to think he may have fallen out of love with Cersei. I told him I’d hurt the woman he loved if he said a word and he assumed I meant Brienne.”

“He better love her,” Daenerys muttered, drifting off to sleep again, and Jon doubted she had any idea what she was saying. “They might be giving us a Good-Daughter. But only if he’s a king…”

Jon chuckled at the absurdity of the statement. He kissed the top of her brow. “Get some sleep, my love.”

Daenerys trailed off in a muttering of tired murmurs and a moment later she was fast asleep, using his chest as a place to rest her head. Jon held her tighter against him, and his mind began to drift, replaying the conversation he had with Jaime, how he called him ‘your Grace’ after learning the truth, even if it was in jest.

He thought back to when he was a boy, and he was at play with Robb. Sansa sat on a pretty little chair with her pretty little doll brushing it’s pretty little hair, and Arya was rolling around with the dogs that always sniffed around the kitchens. Bran was in the cradle, and Rickon was nothing more than a wink in Ned Stark's eye.

“I’m Lord of Winterfell!” Robb announced, standing on a chair with his wooden sword held high. “I’ll defeat any man who tries to take my castle!”

“Nuh uh!” Jon argued, clambering to his own chair and challenging him by drawing his own wooden sword. “I’m Lord of Winterfell! I’ll fight you for my keep!”

Robb grinned, and the two boys began to play at swords when Arya, not even four years old yet, spoke up, not meaning offense at her young age but causing it all the same. 

“You can’t be a Lord,” the girl said, looking up at him from the ground, big grey eyes wide and innocent. “You’re a bastard.”

“Arya, that’s rude!” Sansa hissed at her sister. “Call him a baseborn, not a bastard! Only the peasants call him that!”

“So?”

“So we aren’t _peasants_!”

“Jon can be a Lord if he wants!” Robb snapped at his sisters, effectively silencing them both. Jon hopped down from the chair.

“It’s fine. I don’t wanna play this stupid game anyways,” he muttered, tossing down his wooden sword and storming off to his room, ignoring his brother calling him back. 

What things might have been different if he knew the truth, if they all knew the truth. The sting of the word bastard would slide off him like water off a duck. He would smirk and think to himself how he wasn’t a bastard, he was the heir to the throne. Sansa would have been kinder to him, worlds kinder, and Lady Catelyn wouldn’t have treated him like he was invisible. It probably would have made her love her husband more to know how much of a risk he took hiding the son of the fallen prince all for his sister's sake. 

But Ned had lied, to all of them. For a good reason but would it have hurt to let Jon know? Even as he went to the wall? Or in the times when he was a young child and his father hugged him as he tried not to cry when the other boys would call him bastard. 

Ned would stroke his curly hair and sit him on his lap and tell Jon to ignore what cruel words they said, because even if he was a bastard he still had Stark blood in him. He had the blood of the first men, of Brandon the Builder, of Torren Stark, of his own blood. Winter was coming, Ned would say, and no tears must be allowed when the snows start to fall. He must be brave, he must be strong, he must be part of the pack.

 _If you told us the truth I could have been,_ he thought bitterly. He would still have grown up in the North, he would still be proud to be a Stark even if he was a cousin rather than a sibling of THE Stark pack. He WAS still proud to be a Stark, nothing would ever change that. Even if he was half fire, even if his legal name was Targaryen, he had Stark blood running through his veins even if it didn’t belong to Ned. Nothing would have changed if he and his siblings had been allowed to know the truth except instead of weeping as a child he would have had to hide a giggle behind his hands. 

Jon was tired of being a bastard. He was tired of being considered an other, a ‘just good enough’, a last resort since there were no more male heirs. His father taught all his children respect for men’s titles, even if you did not like the individual wearing it, and his title was not bastard, but a king. A Targaryen. The last living son of Rhaegar Targaryen. 

He did not care to sit in the iron throne and rule, he never wanted to lead. All he wanted was to be a good man, like the man who raised him. Daenerys could have the throne. She WOULD have the throne if Jon had anything to say about it, to Sansa or Cersei or anyone else who disagreed with the divine right that led her thus far. But he didn’t want to be known as a bastard anymore. Daenerys would have to understand that, she had too. Jon was owed the proper titles his birth entitled him to, and his family was owed the truth.

He pressed his lips to her head, forcing his mind to empty and his eyes to close. Jon didn’t mean to come in here to rest, he just wanted to see how she was doing. But now that he was here, undressed and laying in bed with her cuddled up next to him, a few hours of sleep seemed like far too good an opportunity to miss. With a loud yawn and a fluttering of eyes he fell into a heavy sleep. 

His dreams were of little significance or importance, and when he awoke it was to soft kisses. “Jon,” Daenerys breathed. “Wake up.”

He fluttered his eyes open and smiled up at his Queen, long since dressed and ready for the day “Morning…”

She chuckled. “Late afternoon is more like it.”

He sat up in the bed, eyes wide. “Late _afternoon?_ ”

Daenerys raised her hands to calm him. “It’s fine, nothing of consequence has happened. I just thought you needed some sleep. But the bodies are all set to be burned.”

Jon nodded, rubbing his hands over his face. He urged her for a moment to wake up and get ready and with a quick kiss goodbye she left him alone. Jon splashed some water on his face and dressed himself in his warmest leathers and fashioned his cloak around himself, the one Sansa made for him and embroidered the direwolf on the leather straps, the first of any clothes he ever owned with the direwolf sigil. 

Robb lent him a jerkin of his once when he was small after he dirtied his clothes after they got done with a day in the stables, a plain dark white with the grey snarling head on his breast, neither of them knowing the significance of what wearing the wolf meant yet. Lady Catelyn spotted him in the hallway, and while she didn’t say anything directly to the boy not even five years of age, he could see the anger in her eyes and he didn’t understand why. An hour later a brow beaten Ned came with a sad smile and asked Jon to please not to wear the direwolf again. 

Years later the sister who never failed to remind him what he was gave him the first piece of clothing that showed people he was a Stark, he belonged, he was a part of their pack out of the kindness of her heart. He ran his fingers over the wolf and pursed his lips as his eyes fell on Daenerys vanity and he picked up one of her silver three headed dragon pins. Jon twirled it in his hand before he pinned it to the cloak besides the wolf. Daenerys’ eyes fell upon the pin the second she saw him, and when he met her gaze she took a deep breath and gave a curt nod, granting him the permission he didn’t need but still seeked. She took his arm and the two of them made their way downstairs. 

He froze when she saw the endless rows and rows of bodies atop of crudely made pyres, as far as the eye could see. Branches, trees, broken chairs, doors, busted tables that had been destroyed in the fight, any dry wood they could find… Dothraki, Wildlings, knights, Unsullied, Northmen, all of them lined up and waiting for their friends and brothers to light them aflame, with a large group waiting for his command. He swallowed hard as he walked over to where the Northern bodies laid, taking a torch from one of them men who eyed the pin on his breast but said nothing. 

All along the bodies were men and women giving their last farewells and mourning those they lost. Mothers and wives wept over their sons and husbands, friends were laying things of memory in their hands to be burned along them. He saw Brienne and Tyrion besides their fallen squire, tears in both their eyes as they said their goodbyes. He watched her as she drew her still flaming sword and laid it on his left shoulder, then her right and then left again, giving him the gift of knighthood in death. He wasn’t sure if that was legally allowed, but he wouldn’t be the one to question her over it. 

Jon spotted Theon over by the wagons that would take the fallen Ironborn back to the Iron Islands. 

“Don’t burn them so far from the sea,” he begged Jon the other day. “Let them return home.”

Sansa stood beside him, resting her head on his shoulder as a means to comfort him. Jon noted several of the Northern lords giving sharp glares to Sansa but she ignored them. They waited until the carriages were off before they made their way back to the group, her arm linked in his.

If Theon was still whole everything would be so much easier. He could have Sansa marry Theon, his sister would be happy with the match and more importantly she wouldn’t have the power or support to order a civil war against Daenerys. But Theon was… crippled, to be kind. In the worst way a man could be crippled. Sansa would never have children if they married, she would never have a line of her own, she would never hold a son named Ned in her arms or nurse a daughter she would call Catelyn. Jon couldn’t do that to her.

He waited until the mourners returned to the group before he took a breath and stepped out in front, surveying the survivors. 

“We're here to say goodbye to our brothers and sisters,” he said loudly, his voice carrying over the soft wintery winds. “To our fathers and mothers. To our friends. Our fellow men and women who set aside their differences to fight together and die together so that others might live. Everyone in this world owes them a debt that can never be repaid. It is our duty and our honor to keep them alive in memory for those who come after us and those who come after them for as long as men draw breath. They were the shields that guarded the realms of men. And we shall never see their like again.”

He turned towards the men and walked forward, lighting a torch to one of the Northmen, and sending a wave of fire that connected one right after the other. Sam lit the Night's Watch, unable to hold back his tears as he did, Tormund the Wildlings, Daenerys the Dothraki, Grey Worm the Unsullied. Brienne helped lead her father who was leaning on a cane with one leg in a wooden splint to the Tarth soldiers in their brilliant pink and blue armor as he set them aflame. Jon noticed Daenerys watching the tall Lord carefully, her mind whirling. Sansa was trembling as she set fire to the Valesmen but she held her head high and when she returned Theon rested his hand on the small of her back. Jon tried to ignore the small glare Tyrion was giving his sister as she leaned into Greyjoy’s embrace, ignoring all else. 

They all stood there until the sun had fallen below the horizon. Many of the survivors made their way into the Great Hall, packing it full, where ale and wine was being served, and a meager feast was presented. There was a heavy somber silence, with only light talking and the sounds of forks and spoons scraping the bottom of bowls could be heard. 

Jon sat at the head of the table, Daenerys on one side and Sansa on the other. While his sister was staring down at her bowl, Daenerys was looking out over the group, watching Davos as he stood from his table and started to walk across the hall.

“Gendry,” Daenerys called out, and the room quieted. 

The smith blinked and looked around, as though there might be another Gendry. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“You are Robert Baratheon's bastard son.”

There was a low confused muttering from the North, from those who hadn’t known. Gendry swallowed hard. “I am, Your Grace.”

“You are the son of Robert Baratheon, who now lies dead and rotting in the ground. As are his brothers.” In the corner of his eye he saw Davos bow his head in mourning. “So… Who is lord of Storm's End now?” 

“I don’t know, Your Grace.”

“Does anyone?” There were a few confused mutterings but no one could answer. Daenerys pursed her lips. “I think you should be Lord of Storm's End.”

Gendry’s eyes went wide with shock. “I-... I can’t be. I’m a bastard, Your Grace.”

“Not any longer. You are Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End, the lawful son of Robert Baratheon. Because that is what I have made you.”

He stared slack jawed and wide eyed. “I… Your Grace, I am honored,” he stammered, falling to his knees. “But I- I’ve never-... I do not even know how to read much less rule a castle...”

“I know,” she said not unkindly. “That is why you will surround yourself with learned men who will counsel you well. That is also why I am not giving you control over the the vassals, only of the keep and the grounds surrounding them. Your House has much to answer for in regards to war, therefore the Baratheons are no longer the Great House in the Stormlands.”

Gendry’s face broke out in a relieved smile. One keep he could handle. “Of course, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace.”

She turned her attention to Selwyn who was sitting beside a young Dothraki girl so close she may as well have been sitting in his lap. “Lord Selwyn of Tarth, please rise.”

The Evenstar stood with a groan, leaning on his cane, but he nevertheless managed to kneel before her. Sansa furrowed her brow, looking between Daenerys and an equally concerned and confused Brienne. 

“You were the only House in the Stormlands who fought for the Targaryens during the usurpers rebellion.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said.

“Then during the War of the Five Kings your House declared for Renly Baratheon, and after he fell you did not go to Stannis. You stayed loyal to your fallen king and did not side with his enemy even after Renly’s death.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And then you pledged your House and your men to my cause against Cersei Lannister without me needing to even ask.”

Sansa shot a sharp glare at Brienne as though her fathers promise was her fault but she looked as confused as anyone. Daenerys smiled at the tall man on his knees. “That kind of loyalty merits a reward. Wouldn’t you agree, My Lord?” 

“If you are so inclined to give one, Your Grace.”

“I am. Lord Selwyn, the Evenstar of Tarth and Lord of Evenfall Hall, I hereby name House Tarth the ruler of the Stormlands, with control over all its lands and vassals.”

There was an even loud muttering then when Gendry had been named a Lord. Brienne’s blue eyes went wide with shock and her thick jaw dropped.Selwyn closed his eyes, fighting back his tears. His voice was choked with emotions. “Your Grace, I am… humbled and honored beyond words. House Tarth swears to serve House Targaryen well.”

“I know you will.” She smiled and raised her cup. “To Lord Gendry Baratheon of Stormsend, and to Lord Selwyn of Tarth, the Great Lord of the Stormlands!”

The men in the Hall all followed her words and actions, and then they were on the two men, clapping them on the backs and offering them wine and ale in celebration. Selwyn stood, shakingly but on his own and Jon watched Brienne make her way through the crowd and wrap her father in a tight hug, expression nervous and unsure, looking from a cross Sansa to the smiling Queen.

“A way to show the North it’s possible to forgive someone when their family has wronged you,” Tyrion mused from beside Daenerys, pale green eyes dancing with amusement. “Putting a damper between Sansa and her Sworn Sword, and you get a new Great Lord in the Stormlands who will forever be loyal to you.”

Daenerys just smirked before she took a drink of the sugar water and lemon. “You aren’t the only one who knows how to clever…”


	18. Chapter 18

**Daenerys**

“Come on!” Tormund demanded Jon. “All of it!”

Jon shook his head. “No, not in one go,” 

“You can do it,” Sansa urged with a smile. She had willed her anger away as the night wore on, realizing now wouldn’t be the best time to confront Daenerys about the recent promotion given to Selwyn. Jon also seemed willing to set aside the politics for the sake of the feast. If the men saw their lords and monarchs unhappy, they would be unhappy as well, and the men earned the right to a night without politics and pettiness and games. “I believe in you!”

“We need to celebrate our victory, Little Crow!”

“Vomiting is not celebrating.”

Tormund blinked. “...Yes it is.”

Daenerys laughed along with the rest of the men and Jon caught her eye and smiled. Tormund clapped him on the back so hard he nearly spilled his wine and raised his horn ale. 

“HEY!” The red headed man roared above the rest of the revels. “TO THE DRAGON QUEEN!”

There were far more applause then there would have been a few days ago, and it urged Daenerys to her feet and to raise her own glass. “To Jon Snow, the hero of Winterfell!”

The cheers could have deafened the room as they climbed to their feet, slamming their cups down on the tables. Tormund drank the ale down, the dark mead spilling out and soaking his red beard and lifted it up with an uproarious cheer, and immediately filled it to the brim again, slipping some of it over the edge. He pointed at Daenerys. 

“The Freefolk will never kneel, but if we did… we would kneel to the girl with DRAGONS!” He stumbled over so he could clap Daenerys so hard on the back she stumbled, laughing as he did. She smiled and waved away the Bloodrider who took a step forward, watching the wildling wearily. “What kind of person climbs on a fucking dragon?! A mad bitch, OR A QUEEN! THATS BLOODY WHO!” he roared above the cheers of the Wildlings, who cared nothing for the politics of the seven kingdoms or the independence of the North, who saw her with clear eyes and open hearts. 

“And this fucker!” Tormund yelled, grabbing Jon and yanking him to his side, wrapping his arm around his shoulder. “He's little but he's strong! Strong enough to befriend an enemy and get murdered for it! Most people get bloody murdered, they stay that way! Not this one!”

Jon chuckled and caught Davos’ eye. “It wasn’t exactly my choice.”

Tormund didn’t seem to hear him. “He comes back and keeps fighting! Here, north of the Wall, and then back here again! He keeps fighting! He keeps fighting! He climbed on a FUCKING DRAGON ALONG WITH HIS FUCKING QUEEN!” Apparently that was also cause to down the horn of ale again. When he was finished he wagged his big bushy brows at Jon. “And then he goes to his chambers and climbs on top of a much prettier dragon.” 

Jons face burned red as the Wildlings around them all laughed. “Alright, Tormund, that’s enough,” he muttered. “Settle down.”

“I WILL settle down!” he shouted. “I am going to settle down with my big woman!”

Jon smiled. “She has a name.”

Tormund blinked. “...Who?”

He just laughed and shook his head, slapping him on the arm and leaving him to his loud cheers. He turned to Daenerys and took her in his arms. “I’m sorry about him. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“It’s fine,” she promised with a smile. “I’ve heard far cruder things from far cruder men.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sansa frown at the display. She finished the last of her wine and walked away, a sour look on her porcelain face. Daenerys rolled her eyes and pushed it out of her mind.

Tonight was for celebrations, and she would not allow pettiness from a spoiled little girl to ruin it. 

“He’s a great warrior, if not a little unpolished,” Daenerys said, turning back to Jon. “I wish he and his men were marching south with us.”

“I know, but this is not their war,” Jon answered softly. “I cannot ask them to fight.”

“I agree.” She draped her arms around his neck. “I wouldn’t want you to ask either.” 

His smile of relief warmed her to her bones. A Northmen called his name, calling him over to join their group and Jon gnawed at his lip. Daenerys smiled and gave him a gentle push. “Go. This night is for you.”

“Will you be alright?”

“I will. Go have fun.” She leaned up and nipped on his ear. “After you finish perhaps you can climb atop a dragon again,” she purred low in his ear.

“You think Rheagal is well enough to ride tonight?” he asked with a smirk and a gleam in his eye. Daenerys snickered and rolled her eyes, giving him another push. With a quick kiss Jon went over to the men and was immediately handed a glass of ale. 

Daenerys smiled as she surveyed the room. The Dothraki were drinking with the Wildlings, neither one of them understanding the others tongue but they both knew the language of drinking and women well and that was good enough, the Tarth knights were talking with the Ironborn, and the Northmen were mingling with the Unsullied.

Selwyn of Tarth had a glass of wine in one hand and the other day rather high on a pretty little Dothraki girl's thigh. She was only twenty one years of age to his fifty eight, but she was smiling and giggling as he whispered in her ear and stroked her thigh so Daenerys didn’t think much of it. Brienne was also purposely ignoring her fathers antics, and her face burned a bright red when Selwyn buried his face in the crook of her neck and drew an audible moan from the dothraki’s lips.

_ There’s worse things to have than an eye for beautiful women _ , Daenerys told herself as she turned away from her new Lord of the Stormlands. She watched as Missandei and Greyworm sat with a group of Northemen drinking and laughing. The curly haired girl caught the queens eyes and motioned her over.

“Your Grace,” Greyworm greeted Daenerys with a curt nod when she approached. “We are enjoying a Northern Handy.”

“Northern  _ Brandy _ ,” one of the Northmen, a grizzled old man with long white hair and a raggedy beard corrected to the laughter of his friends. He poured a glass of the rich brown liquid and handed it to Daenerys. “Have a  _ real _ drink, Your Grace.”

The dragon smiled and shook her head. “I’m sure it’s delightful, but as a rule I don’t drink unless I’m at a meal.” Grey Worm narrowed his eyes at the lie but thankfully said nothing. 

The Northmen took the cup back without an argument. “Aye, my sister has that rule. ‘Course she’s 300 pounds so she was always eating.” Another round of laughter. “Here,” he nodded to Grey Worm as he handed him the goblet. “Drink that up, boy. Don't let it go to waste.” 

Grey Worm took the mug and drank it down, miraculously without flinching to the cheering of the group.

“Now there’s a tough son of a bitch!” He pointed at Missandei. “And so is this girl! Did you know she smacked a bloody direwolf  _ and lived? _ Ya know what happened to the last person who went up against a direwolf?”

“What?”

“He didn't have a chance to go up against a second.” They all laughed again and the old grizzled man smiled at Missandei, a warm twinkle in his brown eye. “Ya know my son Tom fell for a woman from the Summer Isles. They got a whole mess of girls and a boy living out near Moat Cailin. You wanna know who’s a good cook? Bloody wars have been started over her stew.”

Daenerys smiled. “I should be honored to meet them someday,”

“Unfortunately Tom’s been dead and buried for a while, Your Grace; the Red Wedding. Fucking Frey’s.” He spat the name as if it were a curse and the men around him muttered in agreement.

“I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do…”

He smiled without joy. “There’s some things even a Queen cannot give.” The man stood and stretched his arms towards the ceiling. “I gotta piss.” He nodded to Daenerys. “Your Grace.”

“Perhaps they aren’t all as horrible as we’ve been led to believe,” Missandei mused once the rest of the Northmen headed off in their own direction. 

“And their brandy is quite good,” Greyworm added, pouring himself another glass.

“Careful,” Daenerys warned. “Jon says it can sneak up on you.”

“Nothing can sneak up on Unsullied.” He took another drink before he stood up, wobbling slightly. 

“You were saying?” Daenerys laughed as Missandei took him by the arm to steady him.

“I’ll put him to bed, Your Grace.”

“No you stay and enjoy yourself.”

Missandei blushed a slight red and bowed her head, a shy smile sneaking up on her face. “I- I really don’t mind, Your Grace…”

Daenerys chuckled and grinned. “Of course. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

She watched as her two friends left the hall, then looked around the room and saw Tyrion sitting with his brother and Brienne, both of them laughing at something as the tall blonde took a drink. Selwyn had disappeared with the Dothraki girl, Jon was still drinking with his men, Jorah was talking with the horse lords and Varys was off lurking somewhere. She gnawed at her lip as her face fell, suddenly feeling very alone in a very crowded room… 

Deciding she had celebrated enough for one night Daenerys headed up to her chambers, shutting the door behind her. She peeled off her gown and sat in front of the fire, enjoying the warmth washing over her and watching the flames dance as she nursed her lemon water. Just as she was about to head to bed the door opened and Jon stumbled in, swaying dangerously.

“Are you drunk?” Daenerys asked, amused.

“No,” Jon said with a high degree of certainty, and then promptly stumbled as he took a step. “...Maybe a little.” She chuckled as she took him by the arm and led him to the bed. “I should be taking care of you,” he muttered as she took off his jerkin, holding him steady. “You’re pregnant.”

“I think I can handle undressing you,” she said with a soft laugh as he flopped on the bed. She undid his boots and it took all the effort in the world for him to lift his legs.

Jon flopped his head back and forth as she covered him with a blanket. “You’re a queen. You’re the mother of my child. You deserve someone taking care of you.”

She remembered the first time she got drunk with the Dothraki, a day after the wedding when Viserys had insisted on personally checking to make sure Drogo had consummated the marriage and taken her maidenhood. The Khal laughed at her along with the rest of his blood riders as she stumbled around drunk on fermented mare's milk and afterwards Drogo took her in his tent, her falling down blind drunkenness of no particular concern to him or his cock.

“The only reason I’m doing this for you is because I know you will return the favor one day without complaint,” she said, pushing a stray curl from his face.

“I will,” he promised as she climbed in beside him. He immediately wrapped her in his arms. “You deserve to be protected,” he whispered against her skin. “I’ll always take care of you. I’ll always give you what you deserve. Both of you. I love you.”

“I love you too. Get some sleep, Jon.”

“Not Jon,” he grumbled as his eyes closed. “Daeron.” She tensed in his hold. “I’m Daeron… I don’t want to be a bastard anymore.” She could hear the emotions and tears he never would have let himself show had he not been drunk. “I don’t want to be a bastard, Daenerys, I don’t-... It’s not fair. I’m a king, I’m not a bastard. I’m a king.”

Daenerys swallowed hard and ran a finger through his dark curls. 

“Get some sleep,” she said again and this time he listened. The room soon filled with his soft snores and after Daenerys rolled him on his side so if he happened to vomit it would end up on the floor and not him choking on it, she stared up at the ceiling for a long, long while until the fire in the fireplace had gone out, and only then did she fall asleep. 

The groom was something out of a song. He dressed himself in soft red and black velvet, the dragon sigil on his breast was made of sleek red metal that shone in the torchlight and a crown of black flames and wings sat comfortably on his brow. The blue eyed girls wedding gown was a soft creamy white with gold and pink accents, and a beautiful string of rubies and sapphires hung around her long pale neck. A blue and crimson tiara nestled comfortably in a soft bed of golden curls. 

Her smile wasn’t the most attractive thing Daenerys had ever seen. Her plump lips were wide and too much of her crooked teeth were showing but the man she was dancing with basked in its warm beaming light. The boy held her tight against him and pressed his lips to hers, and the room erupted in applause as they rested their foreheads together, whispering words of love and devotion and eternal togetherness.

But when a dragon roared, and the roof of the Red Keep was torn from the walls, the joy ended, and the screams began. People were running, crying, burning as Drogon bathed them all in fire, and sitting atop the massive beast was the same man holding his terrified bride in his arms, only he did not dress himself in a kings finery, but donned black and red armor, dragon hilted sword in hand. The conqueror spat a single word they both knew well.

_ Dracarys _ .

The woman shrieked as the fire engulfed her, melting her flesh and turning her to ash before he turned their mother’s dragon on the man beside her. The conqueror bathed the king in flames as well, and Daenerys wept, and screamed and smiled.

**Grey Worm**

“I really am not that drunk,” the Unsullied muttered in his native tongue as they walked into their chambers. 

“I know,” Missandei purred as she shut the door behind them, draping her arms around his neck. “I just wanted to be alone with you.” 

“Clever,” he muttered against his lips, allowing her to strip him of his shirt. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered as he nuzzled at her neck, inhaling her gorgeous scent and running his hands through her luscious curls. 

Just as he began to undo the laces on her gown there was a knock at their door. The two of them glanced a curious look at one another before Missandei answered it, giving Grey Worm a moment to pull back on his shirt.

“Sorry for interrupting,” Theon muttered rather apologetically, looking downcast. 

“It’s fine.” She graced him with a kind smile to show that her words were genuine. “Does the queen need us?”

“No, it’s um-... I- I was wondering if I might talk to Grey Worm. In private.”

Missandei looked back towards Grey Worm who gave her a curt nod. “Of course,” she said, turning back to Theon. “I’ll just go get us another bottle of wine.”

Grey Worm inhaled deeply, willing the stirring in his belly away. He may not have had anything between his legs but Missandei could still make him feel what all men felt when a beautiful woman was pressing up against them. But his Queens man had need of him so he motioned to the chairs besides the fireplace.

“What do you need? Lord Greyjoy?” Grey Worm prompted when he answered with nothing but silence. “Is everything alright?”

Theons mouth fell open and shut quickly once, twice, three times. He bowed his head as a blush stole up his cheeks. “How-...” He wiped his brow with the back of a trembling hand. “How did you tell… how did she... the first time you sh- showed...” 

Grey Worms face stayed stoic as Theon struggled to stammer out his words. Many men came to him asking similar questions. How was he able to be with a woman after being cut? How did she act when she saw him? Was it worth it when he could only give relief rather than feel it? Grey Worm answered honestly when his Unsullied asked in earnest, and told men who were still whole who just wanted to satisfy their morbid curiosity to leave unless they wanted to feel the sting of his hooked knife. 

Theon Greyjoy was not Unsullied, but he suffered the worst cruelty the masters put had them through all the same, so his questions would be answered in kind.

“She was kind,” said Grey Worm. “She did not mock me.”

He remembered the night she saw him for the first time well. He had been so terrified she would laugh or be disgusted, but she just smiled and kissed him with a gentleness until he felt at ease. She had not wanted to see him to satisfy some sick curiosity like so many others, she had wanted to see him because she loved him, and when you love someone you want to see all of them, even the bad parts.

“And… and when you two were… together…” Theon muttered. “Wha- what do you…”

“My fingers,” he answered quickly. “My tongue. There are toys that are popular in pleasure houses that I am able to use.”

“You don’t think there’s… do you think she thinks she’s lacking? When she’s with you? If she could have another man, a whole man… do you think she would prefer that over you?”

“She has told me no. I believe her,” Grey Worm said firmly. 

“But what about her future? Children, marriage, her house, her line… she can’t continue that if she’s with you.”

“Missandei does not have a House. And if she wants to be a mother I will give her permission to lay with another.”

“So a bastard. You would saddle her with a bastard.”

“It’s different for us. The concept of marriage does not exist where she is from so the title of bastard does not exist. Or if she does not wish to mate with awoke other than me there are many children orphaned in war…”

“It wouldn't be the same,” Theon muttered. He bowed his head. “What if she wants a child with her blood? What if she wants to continue her fathers line?”

“Have you talked to the Stark girl about this?” 

Theon looked up, eyes wide. “How did you-?”

“I am not blind, Greyjoy. Nor is our queen.”

“I am loyal to Daenerys,” he said with fierce stubbornness. “I am loyal to my sister, and Yara sides with Daenerys. I wouldn’t ever betray them, even for Sansa.”

“She knows, and she knows of the history the two of you share. That is why she has not said anything. But do you trust the Stark girl?”

“Apart from my sister I trust her more than anyone.” A soft smile spread on his face. “She saved my life.”

“Then talk to her. You say you trust her, so trust her with this.”

Theon nodded slowly. “I‘ll think about what you said. Thank you for the advice, I didn’t… there’s no one else who…”

“I understand.” 

The two men bid their goodbyes and soon after Theon left Missandei came back, bottle of wine in hand.

“Everything alright?” she asked as she poured them each a glass. Grey Worm took it with his thanks. He pursed his lips as he looked at her.

“Do you want children?” he asked rather suddenly. 

She blinked. “But you can’t have children.”

“That was not what I asked.”

Missandei set the glass of wine down and took his face in her hands. “All I want is you,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his.

“But your line…”

“My ‘line’ is two people I do not remember, whose names I can’t recall, who came from others I have never met.” She wrapped him in her arms. “I would like to be a mother one day, but it makes no difference to me whether they are my blood or not.”

The corner of his usually stern faces lips tugged upwards, a rarity that always made her melt. “Truly?”

Missandei smiled and nodded. “Truly. After our queen has taken the throne and her enemies are defeated, I would like to go back to the Summer Isles and adopt a little girl that we name for our queen, and a boy we would name for Ser Barristan.” She turned in his arms and leaned against him. “The four of us could live in a little house by the beach and there would be no more battles for you to fight, no more masters for us to obey, no more anything but our happiness.”

“I’ve never thought about what comes after the war,” he admitted. “A family was never something I thought about before our queen bought the Unsullied. Even after I met you I did not ever envision it.”

“And now?”

“Now?” He turned her around so she was facing him. Brown eyes locked onto brown, and his gaze was so intense that he knew she had no choice but to believe him. “Now I want nothing more then what you’ve described. Now I swear on our queen that I will give you what you dream about, Missandei of Naath. I will give you what you deserve…” 

**Sansa**

Gods Sansa hated Daenerys. She hated the dreadful screeching her dragons made, she hated how the Northern Lords were angry at her when all she was trying to do was protect them, she hated how Daenerys made her brother so happy that he turned his back on his family, and she hated how she was trying to take her closest friend and confidant away from her. 

It was times like this that Sansa regretted never learning to fight. Brienne taught her a few moves before the battle with a dagger but what she wouldn’t give to merely put her hand on the hilt of a sword and silence looks or sneered comments, the way Brienne could do. Her sworn sword didn’t often intimidate others. Most times she preferred to stay as small and hidden out of sight as she could, but when it was needed, she merely had to raise a hand and place it on the golden hilt of her sword and she could get others to comply. Even the sheer size of her gave men cause for alarm, not knowing that unless her Lady was threatened she never would have hurt a fly. 

Sansa chuckled to herself as she sipped on her wine, remembering how Petyr would always scamper away like a cockroach would when confronted with light whenever Brienne would show up, bright blue narrowed into dislike. He knew all his clever comments wouldn’t have been able to save him if the tall blonde ever decided to use the sword at her hip against him. When Brienne stood behind her, a great large looming shadow armed with a priceless sword wearing the best armor money could buy, Sansa felt something she hadn’t felt since her father was murdered. She felt invincible when Brienne was around. She felt protected. She felt safe.

And now Daenerys was trying to take her away. She was going to leave Sansa unprotected and vulnerable. Sansa knew she would have to let Brienne go eventually, she was the last heir to Tarth afterall, but now the dragon queen put Brienne above her in status if not in station. Sansa may have been the Lady of Winterfell but Jon was Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Brienne was the next in line to rule over all the Stormlands. How was she going to have a woman sworn to her when she was equal to her? Not only that but her bloody father swore the Tarth forces to Daenerys, meaning that Brienne could no longer fight for Sansas home. If it ever came to blows between her and the dragon queen, Brienne could not fight for the North.

Sansa pursed her lips as she took another sip of wine, unable to remember if this was her third cup. Or forth. Or fifth. She could always gift Brienne some small little keep in the North. It would keep her sworn shield near her and her honor would come before her family, meaning she wouldn’t disobey her Liege Lady. Then when Selwyn passed Daenerys would have nobody to run her precious Stormlands. Last Hearth needed a new Lord, and Sansa was sure some northmen who still revered the name Stark would be desperate enough for a lordship that he would be able see past Brienne's looks and take her as a wife. 

Daenerys would agree the kind of loyalty Brienne showed Sansa merited some kind of reward, did it not?

Sansa stood, swaying slightly as she did. She looked around for Brienne, eager to share the news that she was getting a new castle and a husband but she was nowhere to be found, her or the Kingslayer. Brienne was gone, Jon was still drinking with the Wildlings, and none of the Northern lords were very happy with her right now. Even some of the Knights of the Vale who adored her now had cross looks to give her. Her eyes caught the Hound sitting alone at the table, looking as miserable as he always did. She watched as he literally snarled at some serving girl who had stroked his arm, sending her scampering away in fear. Sansa made her way over to the half burnt man, sitting opposite him.

“She could have made you happy,” she said, her voice rich in amusement. “For a little while.

“There's only one thing that'll make me happy,” he grumbled in his thick raspy voice.

“And what's that?”

“That's my fucking business,” he snapped at her, and she just smirked. She realized long ago when it came to her his bark was all bark, and little bite. Like Tyrion she found that the older she grew, the less unattractive she found him. He was quite good looking, in a dangerous rugged way. 

The Hound took a long drink of ale, not taking his eyes from her. “Used to be you couldn't look at me…”

“That was a long time ago,” she answered. “I've seen much worse than you since then.”

“Yes, I've heard,” he growled. “Heard you were broken in. Heard you were broken in  **rough** .”

She forced a smirk to her lips. “And he got what he deserved. I gave it to him.”

“How?

Her smug smile grew. “Hounds.”

He chuckled and poured her a cup of ale that she took eagerly. “You've changed, Little Bird.” He took a long drink without taking his eyes off her. “None of it would have happened if you'd left King's Landing with me. No Littlefinger, no Ramsay none of it.”

Sansa clasped his hands gently in hers. He looked down and then back up at her. “If I could go back in time,” she said softly. “If I could do it all over again, if I had to choose between leaving with you the night of the Blackwater or killing the little bird? I would choose going with you. Every time.”

The Hound nodded slowly, and when he spoke again his voice was as gentle as she or anyone else had ever heard it. “If I had known what he was doing when he was doing it, I would have come North and killed the fucker with my bare hands. I would have given him exactly what he deserved.”

She smiled and laid a hand on his burnt face. He did not flinch or pull away, and for half a moment she thought he might raise his hand and lace it overtop of hers but it stayed on the table. “I know you would have.”

Sansa nodded towards some serving girl with blonde hair and pale green eyes looking at the Clegane brother with obvious wanton desire. “She seems rather pretty. Go have fun for a night.”

He looked over at her with a disinterested glance before he turned back to his cup. “Don’t much like blondes since your big shadow nearly killed me.”

Sansa chuckled. “I’m sure she had her reasons.” She pursed her lips at him. “So what  _ do _ you like?”

He looked at her for a white. A long while, before he finally spoke. “Killing, Little Bird,” he said rather bluntly, but there was something in his voice that told her that wasn’t the answer he really wanted to give. “I like killing.”

She rolled her eyes and rose from her chair. “Enjoy your barrel of ale.”

He poured himself another pitcher full. “Oh I will.”

Sansa swayed slightly as she walked away, and she put a hand to her head. She had drank far too much, she needed to get to bed. She had half a mind to go back to the Hound and ask him to escort her, but she had enough of Sandor for one night. She thought about finding Podrick to assist her, but then she remembered he had died protecting Brienne. The memory of him made her want to weep but she would wait until she got back to her chambers. She looked back at Jon, thinking about how she might go ask him for help but he was far away and the floor was quite steep and uneven. 

Sansa could make it on her own, she decided firmly as she stumbled from the hall. Her chambers were just six flights up, and Brienne’s was only four. If the stairs became too difficult she could always go to her sworn swords room and ask to sleep there. She could tell her about Karhold. Not Karhold, Winterfell. No definitely not. She was giving Brienne... Last Hearth! Yes, that was it!

The redhead began her long trek up the steps, making it up two when she heard her name being called. She turned and saw a young Northeman hurrying up the stairs after her, reeking of ale.

“Glad to see you made it through the night,  _ M’lady,” _ he spat the title as though it was cursed and she swallowed hard.

“I’m glad you made it though as well,” she said, voice slurring slightly. 

“Ya know who didn’t make it though?” She shook her head. “My brother. He died in the hallway waiting on a Maester.”

She took a deep breath, trying her best to stop the world from spinning. “I’m sorry,” she said, hoping she sounded at least somewhat sober. “I was doing what I thought was best for the North and our men, I didn’t trust them not to hurt us, I was wrong. If there’s anything I can do-.”

“Not allowing them to heal our men is what’s best for the North? I noticed your big ugly southern cunt got saved by one of those foreigners though.”

“Don’t you  **_dare_ ** talk about Brienne like that!” she shouted, the wine making her far braver than she normally would have been.

“I’ll talk about the Kingslayers whore any bloody damn way I feel like!” he snarled, getting right up close to her face. “Why should she be here while my brother lies dead? What makes her more special then him?”

_ She doesn’t have an asshole for a brother, for one,  _ she wanted to say, but she was not so far gone as to let those words cross her lips. “I am truly sorry you lost your brother. I was only trying to help, I don’t know what else I can say.” 

She tried to move past him but he reached out and grabbed her wrist, yanking her back towards him. “Let me go!” she demanded, trying to pull out of his grasp but she may as well have been trying to break free of irons. “I said let me go! I am the Lady of Winterfell and I will have your head!”

“Like Ramsey Bolton gave you his head?” Sansa swallowed hard, and began to tremble where she stood. He leaned in close and pressed himself up against her, nearly stumbling in his drunken stupor. “Maybe I should treat you to a night like one your husband used to treat you to. It won’t bring my brother back but it’ll make me feel a whole lot fucking better.”

“Please,” she begged as he tightened his grip on her wrist. Memories of Ramsey pushing into her, cutting her, burning, laughing as she screamed and wept filled her mind. “Please, you’re hurting me…”

“Leave the Lady alone.”

Sansa and the man both turned towards the new voice and she felt a rush of relief fill her when she saw Theon, standing at the top of the stairs.

“This don’t concern you,” the man growled.

“I said.” Theon came closer and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Leave the Lady alone.”

The man eyes the castle forged steel at his hip and he pursed his lips. She could hear him debating about whether she was worth fighting a man with a sword while he was armed with only a rusty dagger.

“The bloody bitch isn’t worth my time,” he grumbled, letting her go and scampering away. 

Once he was gone Theon raced towards her, fear and worry shining bright in his eyes. “Are you alright?”

She sniffed away her tears and nodded. She wobbled slightly and he took hold of her arm but it was different the way he held her. Theon was gentle, and strong. 

“And brave,” she muttered.

“Sorry?”

She looked at him through her drunken gaze. “You’re brave,” she told him softly. “And gentle, and strong.”

He forced her nervous lips into a smile. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not a bit,” she slurred, and he laughed, the first time she ever heard it since Ramsey.

“Come on,” he told her. “Let’s get you to your chambers.

“No,” she grumbled. She closed her eyes as the world began to spim. “Brienne's room is close enough…”

Theon half walked, half dragged her to her sworn shields room. Sansa was about to knock on it when she heard noises from inside.

“So wet...” a familiar voice, the kingslayers voice muttered so low she almost missed it. Sansa furrowed her brow. 

“Her clothes must still be damp from the snows,” she drunkenly declared to Theon who was biting back a laugh. “I’m giving her the Dreadfort… no… I can’t remember what I’m giving her…”

“Why don’t we leave Brienne alone for the night? My room is on the third floor, you can sleep there.”

Sansa nodded, but then rather forgot how to use her feet. Without comment or complaint Theon picked her up and carried her in his arms to his chambers, a rather plain bare bones room hidden away.

She nestled her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. He smelled like the sea, a pleasant scent of salt and shore. He laid her down on the straw filled bed and took her shoes and stockings off but left her gown alone. He covered her up with a blanket and kneeled beside her bedside.

“My Florian,” Sansa sighed rather dreamily, reaching out with a limp hand to cup his face. “My beautiful fool.”

“You deserve a Florian,” he whispered, more to himself than her. “Get some rest, my sweet Jonquil,” Theon told her, taking hold of her hand and laying it back down on the bed again. 

That sounded like one of the best ideas anyone has ever had. Sansa nodded and curled up under the furs, and soon she fell away into a peaceful, dreamless sleep…


	19. Chapter 19

“You… are an only child.”

Brienne raised a pale brow. “I told you I was.”

“You didn't.”

“I did!” she cried, bright blue eyes beaming with amusement even as they argued.

“I  _ surmised _ it,” he purred. 

“Drink,” Tyrion laughed, quickly ending the fight. She scoffed with good humor and took a long drink of wine. 

Tyrion pursed his lips at the tall woman for a moment. “Go again.”

“Why does he get to go again?” she demanded, and Jaime wanted to laugh at the high pitched tone her voice took on.

“Because it's my game,” Tyrion challenged. She smiled but didn’t argue the way she would have if it were Jaime challenging her.

“You have danced with Renly Baratheon,” he said rather pointedly. 

Her smile fell. “How did you know that?”

“I surmi-.”

“Jaime.”

He gnawed at his lip. “Podrick told me.” 

She bowed her head, frowning at the mere mention of her squire's name. 

“No,” Tyrion protested with a shake of his head. “No sad moments here. We already drank to his memory, you and I had a nice long cry over him, and he would want us to get good and drunk in his honor. You know I’m right...”

A sad smile tugged at the corner of Brienne’s lips. “I never actually really allowed him to drink.”

“Oh I know. He loved you but if there was one thing he could have changed about you it would have been that.”

A soft chuckle passed her lips. She took a deep breath before she gave a curt nod, lifted her head and took a long drink of wine. 

Tyrion looked towards Jaime. “Go again.”

“Oh come on!” she cried over the two mens laughter, and joy radiated from her, and any momentary misery was forgotten.

Jaime leaned back in his chair, resting a hand over the back of it, adoring the slight blush that crept up her cheeks as she looked at the lounging lion. “You… have been betrothed.”

She quickly pointed at him. “How many times?”

That took him back. He figured a highborn like her would have had at least one marriage contract but more than that? He pursed his lips for a moment. “...Two?”

“Drink.”

“How many?” he asked after he swallowed the wine.

“Three. The first was broken when the boy died of a chill and the other times it just didn’t work out,” she offered. He knew her well enough to know that was not the whole story but he wouldn’t push for it now.

She turned towards Tyrion and examined him a moment, as though that would give her any sort of help.

“You were marr-.” Brienne happened to catch Jaime’s eyes and he shook his head just enough for her to see, knowing what she was about to ask. He never told the wench about Tyrion’s first wedding and it would have been unintentional on Brienne's account, but Tyrion’s marriage to Tysha was his biggest trauma and one of Jaime’s greatest regrets. Using it as a way to score a point in a drinking game would have been far too cruel.

She gnawed at her lip as she tried to think of a new question. “You… have made the eight.”

“How in the Seven Hells do you know what  _ making the eight  _ is?” Jaime asked agasht while Tyrion laughed at his brother's stunned reaction over the most innocent Highborn woman he ever met knowing the name of crude games unscrupulous men liked to play. 

“I lived in an army camp for weeks, I heard things!” Brienne nodded to Tyrion, beaming so brightly Jaime felt the warmth of the sun coming off her. “Drink!”

Jaime melted at the sight of her grinning, laughing, enjoying herself, allowing herself to come out of the shy little shell she often liked to curl herself into... 

“You’re drinking wine but you prefer ale!” she said quickly before he could even set the glass down.

“No!” he yelled back just as quick and she took a drink of her own. After she was done Brienne looked at Jaime and smiled, growing more confident with every swig of the vintage, and he smiled in return, feeling a warm feeling spread throughout him. Tyrion’s face turned serious as he looked from Brienne to Jaime and back again. 

“You’re in love.”

Any priorly earned amusement was gone as quick as it had come for both her and Jaime. Brienne’s face fell as embarrassment surged through her in waves, and her eyes darted nervously to the tall man sitting opposite her.

“That’s a statement, about the present,” Jaime argued, hoping to spare her the humiliation of having to answer.

“You are currently in love with someone in this very room,” Tyrion said, eyeing Brienne carefully. Jaime swallowed hard as emeralds and sapphires met, neither of them daring to move or speak or breathe. Her fingers flinched towards the stem of the glass.

“WE DID IT!” 

Jaime curled his flesh hand into a fist as the bearded wildling came over to them, slopping ale over his horn and bellowing quite loudly. Brienne closed her eyes and yanked her hand away from the goblet as though it had burned her. 

“WE FACED THOSE ICY FUCKS! LOOKED RIGHT INTO THEIR BLUE EYES AND HERE WE ARE!” He grinned and lifted his brow at Brienne as though his next words were the most charming thing he could think of. “Now… which one of you cowards shit in my pants?”

His laugh was obnoxious, and outrageously loud. He ignored the disgust on Brienne's face and the annoyed looks from the Lannister brothers. 

“Please pardon me,” she said dryly, standing from her chair and pushing past him. Tormund’s grin grew, and he managed to take a single step after her before Jaime was on his feet. He flashed a dangerous grin at the wildling and clapped him rather hard on the shoulder before he turned and followed Brienne from the hall.

He looked back and saw Tyrion pour Jaime’s leftover wine in the ale horn then clink his cup against it, a cold unflinching look in his pale green eyes as he silently warned the red head to never try taking a lion's prey ever again. He walked away from the table with his head held high and feeling as proud and tall as any Lannister did when their schemes worked out.

“Were you going to drink?” he called out as he watched her walk up the steps. 

“I’m tired,” she answered without turning back. “I’m done playing games.”

“But you were going to? Drink, I mean.”

“I’m not playing the game anymore, Jaime,” was all she said before continuing up the stairs. 

He watched her walk around the corner and out of sight and he sighed, leaning against the wall for a moment. Jaime pushed himself off and went back into the hall with a slight sway in his step. He flopped down in a seat and undid his jacket, grabbing a pitcher of Dornish red and pouring himself a glass.

Brienne was going to drink. She was, Jaime knew she was. But then that idiot Wildling, who leered at Brienne like she was some peasant whore rather than a Highborn Lady, had to show up and ruin everything. He narrowed his eyes at the thought of him as he took another drink. The way he looked at her, talked to her, talked  _ about  _ her made a snarling beast come to life inside Jaime, the same beast that showed up whenever Euron Greyjoy made his childish comments about Cersei. 

He briefly wondered who she would have drank for, but then he started to laugh, ignoring the strange looks from those around him. There was only one option, he knew. In his brain and his soul and his heart he knew who she would drink for, and his chest warmed at the answer, because he knew the answer he would have if asked as well…

Jaime somehow managed to grab the pitcher of wine, his glass and a clean one for her with only one hand. He made his way up the long winding staircase until he was in front of her door. He knocked on it with the heavy golden hand, and a few seconds later she answered.

His breath caught in his throat as he looked at her, for the first time in his life at a loss for words. Out of armor she was thinner than one would expect, and her breeches made her legs look even longer, if that was at all possible. Even her shirt gave her a small hint of a woman’s curves, and she was staring at him with big blue eyes, waiting.

“You didn’t drink,” he blurted out. It was the only thing he could think of to say before he pushed by her. 

“I didn't drink?” she asked, confused, as she shut the door behind him. 

“In the game.”

“I drank-?”

“ _ In the game! _ ” he said again, louder, hoping to make his meaning clearer, and then he held up the pitcher. “This is Dornish!”

Brienne swallowed hard as he poured her a glass. “This is  _ not _ a game,” she clarified sharply. “This is  _ only _ drinking.”

He handed her the cup of wine. “Suit yourself.” She took a sip, eyeing him as if he might say something when she was done. Jaime gnawed at his lip as the silence stretched between them. He eyed the massive fire in the fireplace. 

“You keep it warm enough in here,” he grumbled, walking away from her, unable to stand the rising flame that arose whenever their eyes met.

“It’s been cold these last few nights,” she said as he took off his jacket. “Plus it’s the first thing I learned when I came to the North. Keep a fire going. Everytime you leave the room, put more wood on.”

“That’s very diligent,” he said with an air of mocking, finally flinging down the jacket onto her floor and turning back to face her. “Very responsible…”

“Piss off,” she snapped and the fire inside him stirred hotter.

“You know the first thing I learned in the North?” he asked as he walked back over to her, staring up at her with a smug look, practically daring her to contradict him. “I  _ hate _ the fucking North.”

Her lips tugged up into a slight smile. “It grows on you.”

Jaime’s eyes moved over her, no shame, no hesitation, obvious in his intent. Not for the first time he wondered what it might be like to grab hold of those curves, to run his tongue across them, to hear her whimper and moan as he did. But this  _ was _ the first time he didn’t chastise himself for it, and he did not push them away. 

“So,” he said as he went over and poured himself a cup of wine. “You  _ were _ going to drink… Is it Tormund Giantsbane?”

He could have laughed at the irritated, annoyed expression she wore at the mere suggestion. “He was very sad when you left,” he purred, taking a sip of wine without taking his eyes from her.

“You sound quite jealous,” she said in a soft whispery voice that he never heard before, and he doubted any man before him ever had.

Jaime nodded slowly, pursing his lips. “I do don’t I?” Brienne just stared at him, lips parted just slightly, unsure what to say next. He forced a laugh as he looked towards the fireplace again. 

“It’s bloody hot in here!” 

Jaime grabbed at the laces on the front of his shirt, trying to quickly undo them. His drunken mind and still unfamiliar fingers unwilling to work together. His brother helped lace the shirt up prior to the feast, and when Jaime was alone he always wore tops with simple knots he could undo one handed or shirts with no ties at all. 

He grew frustrated when he couldn’t manage to undo the tight knots, and he looked at Brienne who was simply standing there, confused at what was now happening in her chambers. When he put the lace between his teeth to aid him, Brienne rolled her eyes.

“Oh move aside!” she said, pushing away his hand and grabbing him by the front of the shirt and pulling him towards her.

Jaime stared wide eyed as she began to undo the ties, her long thin fingers moving deftly. He eyed the ties on the front of her shirt and he had a sudden longing to want to see what was hidden beneath it. A rather practical thought occurred to him that if she was taking off his shirt, it would only be right to return the favor. He reached up and tugged at one of her laces, and her hands quickly covered his.

“What are you doing?” Brienne asked, simply shocked, not offended nor frightened. 

“Taking your shirt off,” he answered, resuming pulling at the ties before he looked up at her. Her fingers brushed against his and gently pushed his hand down away from her, and she took her own hand away from his shirt. Jaime swallowed hard and took a half step back. Had he misconstrued her looks? The spark between them? 

But then she was undoing her own laces, her fingers moving quickly. She bowed her head to see what she was doing and all Jaime could do was stare in awe of her, of what was about to happen, of everything about this moment. When she was finished she lifted her head, meeting his gaze head on with a surprising amount of confidence. She reached forward and for a moment he thought she might have been reaching for his trousers but instead she just untucked his shirt and Jaime lifted his arms to help her pull it off him. With a gentleness that no one had ever used with him before she reached for the golden hand and undid the tight painful straps, slowly pulling off the ruined hunk of metal and lightly caressing the crisscrossed scars on his stump afterwards, not a hint of disgust on her features the way he caught Cersei looking at it when she thought he wasn’t looking.

She slid her shirt from her shoulders, baring herself for the first time to any man. He kept his eyes on hers for now though. 

“So you’re telling me it’s  _ not _ Tormund Giantsbane?” he asked with a smile.

“It’s not,” she whispered, voice shaking slightly. “But I’m unsure if the person I feel this way for feels the same.”

“I guarantee you he does,” he whispered back, and she swallowed hard. “Of course if you wanted to be sure I could run downstairs and ask him.”

“Do you  _ ever _ know when to stop talki-?”

Jaime surged forward on his tiptoes and kissed her, quickly cutting off her words. 

Brienne immediately melted into his kiss, going weak in the knees for a moment before she was kissing him back. She was inexperienced, he could tell as soon as she moved her lips against his. She was over eager and her teeth clacked together with his but Jaime didn’t care. He had enough experience for the both of them and he was as hungry for her as she was for him. She was unsure where to put her hands at first but eventually they draped themselves around his neck and he buried his hand in her hair and combed his fingers through her pale blonde curls. When his tongue brushed against hers for the first time she froze for a moment but a moment later she was dancing hers against his in return.

When he pulled away and leaned his forehead against hers both their breaths were heavy, and she was clutching at him as though she was terrified she might float away. 

“I’m sorry I’m not very good at this,” she told him, voice trembling. The blue of her eyes had darkened to two deep blue pools of sapphires and Jaime had never seen such an exquisite color before. “I’ve never done this before.”

“I know.” Jaime put his arms on her waist and pulled her closer. He pressed his lips to the long scars that curled around her neck where the bear had mauled her and the soft moan that escaped her lips was music to his ears. “You don’t ever have to apologize for anything when you’re with me. Especially not about this.” 

He kissed her again, and this time he started to walk back towards the bed taking her with him. Between the three hands the ties holding up both their breeches were undone and both pairs dropped to the floor. He laid her down on the bed, not taking his lips from hers. She brushed her long thin fingers through his hair and lightly fingering the nape of his neck in such a soft way he closed his eyes and took a moment just to enjoy the tender way she touched him as they kissed.

Jaime pulled away so he could look at her more clearly, letting his eyes wander over her in a way he hadn’t been able to do in the bath. Brienne was strong, with prominent muscles not seen on any other Highborn Lady and fresh bruises and old scars littered the long lean body, mapping out her body the same as his scars did on his. A woman’s curves were nearly non-existent but their softness was still there, waiting to be touched and kissed and caressed. She quickly looked away as he looked at her, truly looked, for the first time and a blush stole up her cheeks as she closed her eyes tight. 

“Brienne, look at me,” he begged, and she shook her head. “Brienne…”

“I don’t want to see you disappointed,” she whispered, a thousand cruel words and memories poisoning her words. Jaime just raised a golden brow before he nestled between her legs, letting her feel the growing hardness between his. 

“Does that feel like I’m disappointed?” he breathed, nibbling at her ear, drawing a sweet soft moan from his lips. “So now will you open your eyes?”

She took a moment to brace herself before she turned back to him. wrapping her arms around him. She was strong, and gentler than he would have thought. Gentler than Cersei.

“I dreamed of you,” Brienne admitted in a soft shy voice. “I dreamed of you seeing me like this and... and you laughed at me.”

“I promise that the last thing I want to do right now is laugh.” 

Brienne gazed into his bright green wildfire eyes and savored the truth in them. “I know,” she whispered, and then she pulled his face to hers. 

His hand ran over her muscles and curves, groping at her small breast and lightly pinching the small pink pebbles, teasing them until they were hard, and all the while his lips were kissing her neck, his lips marking her as his own.

“Jaime!” Brienne gasped, arching her back into his hand and a roaring fire tore through him at the sound he had only dreamt about and imagined.

“Brienne,” he groaned, rolling his hips against hers. Her heat was the hottest thing he had ever felt and he wanted to be lost in it forever. “Wench… my Wench.”

Her fingers dug into the muscles in his back and they kissed again, hungrier, more intense, desperate for more from the other. His hand disappeared between her legs, combing through the bush of yellow curls and he moaned when he found her slick and soaked and wanting all for him. All because of him. 

Jaime rubbed between her legs, drawing forth more of her delectable honeyed cream and she cried out to the Gods as he pushed a finger inside her, pushing it in and out, and her blue eyes fluttered close and her lips parted, gasping as she added a second, slowly twisting and curling his fingers inside her. Her tiny mewls and whimpers would be the end of him but when her big blue eyes found his, her breast heaving just at the slightest touch, and when she opened her mouth to speak again he knew he was lost.

“Please,” Brienne begged. Not grunted, not moaned, but  _ begged.  _ It was a word he never would have associated the stubborn blonde beneath him but here she was, bare breasted in the firelight underneath him, and  _ begging _ Jaime for more of  _ him _ . 

It was too much. It was something he hadn’t heard from his sister in the countless years they were together. When he was with her he was the one who would have to ask for more. Jaime was expected to know what his sister wanted, at all times, and he would be punished if he didn’t. But Brienne would never punish him. She would plead, and he would give with every ounce of his heart, because he knew when it was his turn to ask, she would give just as eagerly.

“Jaime, please,” she begged again, pressing herself up against him, desperate and hungry for what was now impossibly hard between his legs. 

Jaime kissed her again, hitching her leg up and taking himself in hand. He pressed against her center and gazed down at her, looking for any hesitation, any fear, any sign she did not want to take this final step but all he could see was her eager for him, hungry for him, adoring him, loving him. In all the ways he has never been adored or loved before.

He pushed into her, slowly, and she gasped. When he was a little less than halfway in her eyes clenched shut, and she drew her plump lip in between her teeth.

“Are you alright?” he panted, freezing his movements. Brienne nodded quickly, not opening her eyes. 

“Just g- give me a moment,” she gasped. “Please.”

Jaime peppered her face with soft light kisses as he waited for her to feel more at ease with the new sensation. His hand brushed against her breast and his lips nibbled at her ear, and when she took a deep breath and nodded he pushed in further, withdrawing slowly and then moving into her again and again and the expression of pain melted away and replaced by one of longing and want.

“You’re so tight,” he muttered as he buried himself deep in her soft warmth, and sending a pleasant shudder throughout her. Her nails dug into his back and her legs wrapped around his waist. “So perfect. So wet…”

He thought he heard something outside the door but it was gone as quick as he noticed it.

“Jaime,” Brienne gasped as he moved in and out, ina me out, over and over. She was kissing him, clutching at him, crying out for him. “Jaime, please!  _ Please _ !”

“What do you need?” he painted in her ear. “Brienne…”

“You! Jaime!  _ Please _ !”

He moved faster, giving her more, giving her more and more, drawing forth gasps and cries and moans and his name as he moved into her faster and faster, over and over, again and again. Their kisses were frenzied, their hands frantic, their lovers cries loud and when she screamed his name when he finally pushed her over the edges, with no care or shame, wanting the world to know the dishonorable Kingslayer was hers, her lion roared her name as he filled her with his seed, coming together with her in the best way two souls could come together.

It took every ounce of strength in him not to collapse on top of her. They were both panting as he looked down at her, emeralds gazing into sapphires. Brienne's pale face was flushed, her plump lips even more swollen than usual from their kisses, her usual slicked back hair mussed and sticking up in a way no man had ever seen until now.

“You’re so beautiful,” Jaime breathed, and she was. Maybe not in the way that Cersei or Daenerys or Sansa was beautiful, but Brienne was utterly and absolutely magnificent in her own enchanting way, and he would take his strong stubborn wench over a thousand of traditionally beautiful women. But what was more was she had a beautiful heart, a beautiful soul, as beautiful as any he had ever seen before or would ever again.

Brienne swallowed hard as she searched for a lie that was nowhere to be found. Tears filled her eyes as she rested a calloused hand on his face and he immediately turned his head to press a kiss to her palm. “I believe you.”

“If you believe me then why are you crying?”

Her lip trembled as she stroked his golden hair now corrupted with grey. “Because no one has ever told me that before. No one has ever made me feel like I could be beautiful with just a single look like you do.”

Jaime wrapped her in his arms and kissed her again, her tears salty on his lips. “Then I will say it a thousand times a day to make up for all the times you should have been told that. Of course with your new status I’m sure a hundred men will start telling you that, even the blind ones.”

She gifted him with a teary laugh and Jaime beamed at the sound as he finally rolled off her, corrupting her sheets with fluids and seed and maidenhood blood. Brienne turned so she was facing him and when she rested her hand up beside her head Jaime immediately took it in his, interlacing their fingers together. 

“That’s what this was all about wasn’t it? You weaseling your way into my new power.” She grinned, letting him know the comment was purely in jest.

“Well if you really think that I’m just in it for the lands and titles you can always go and find Tormund to keep your bed warm.” He laughed as she rolled her eyes. “He wanted you even before Tarth became a Great House.”

“I’d rather just be alone than have him set foot in my chambers. I don’t even think he knew my name until yesterday, I was just ‘the big woman’,” she admitted. “He wants me, but he somehow makes me feel even more like a freak. He treats me like my body is just something to fetishize.”

Jaime frowned at her. “I’ve never made you feel like that right?”

“No,” she said softly. “No, the way you look at me is… it’s different. You want to be with me as well but you see more than just  _ this _ ,” she said, motioning to herself. “You respect me. You care about me.”

“Because I do. More than respect or care, I love you, Brienne.”

His big blue eyes shone with a light that could have warmed the world. She reached over and took hold of his useless right arm, and pressed a gentle soft kiss to the scarred stump, the one he earned protecting her honor and virtue. He melted, and was forced to fight back his tears. 

“I love you too, Jaime.”

No other words were said. No other words were needed. 

They laid there in a comfortable soft silence and soon her eyes grew heavy and pretty soon she fell asleep. Jaime kept his gaze on her face, memorizing the softness in his heart and soul and mind, until he was sure even when he closed his eyes he would see her as she was now. 

Peaceful, beautiful, sated. 

Jaime fell asleep soon after her, a soft smile on his face when he realized that he would not need to get up early and leave before the maids came in to clean, he would not need to make up an excuse for why he was seen around her chambers, he would not need to be content with passionate quick romps whenever they were alone for three minutes. He could take his time with her. He could make her scream his name into the night with no fear that someone would overhear, he could mark her as his without worrying that someone might connect the dots. Jaime could love Brienne openly, honestly.

And nothing would ever feel as sweet...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there was no Jon or Daenerys or really no plot in this one, but Braime fans have waited for this scene forever and all we got for a literal 20 year slowburn was a 3 second kiss when you KNOW if Gwen was younger and more conventional looking we would have had a sex scene as long as GW/Missandei had, or at least a semi decent one like Jonerys got where they actually had sex. I’d be absolutely utterly remiss if I didn’t fix their big scene as well, it’s only fair. So nearly 5,000 words later…. here we are lol


	20. Chapter 20

**Gendry**

“For a man who’s had the biggest promotion of probably anyone in the last 100 years you do not look as happy as I thought you would,” Davos said as he sat down opposite the young lord.

Gendry hardly heard him, hardly saw him. “Do you know that Storm’s End commands five thousand men?” 

“Aye. Good loyal men too.”

“I have five thousand people who are depending on me now. That’s five thousand people looking at me to protect them, to act in their best interest, to be fair and firm and strong… What if I can’t? What if I fail them?”

“The fact that you’re so terrified about failing them means you’re probably the best person for the job.”

“How can I do what’s best for them when I can’t even read? I’m not smart, I know how to fight and bend steel, that’s it.”

“Look at me,” Davos demanded and Gendry finally met his eye. The old man leaned in closer. “I’ve known bastard fishermen who have never even seen a book that I consider to be wise in all the ways that matter, and I’ve known lords who could speak three languages and didn’t have a lick of common sense. Reading and knowing things aren’t what makes you a good lord.” He nodded towards his chest. “What’s in there does.”

“But I- I don’t… those lords who could speak three languages, they at least grew up being trained how to run a keep and how to be a Lord.” He was speaking quicker now, his voice getting more and more frantic, and his heart began beating faster and faster. “They know how to do all the little things like know how to find advisers to help him and servants. They knew where to find castilian’s, a master of arms, a Maester, cooks, stable boys, tax collectors, a personal guard, a man to empty the bloody levy’s!”

“Slow down,” he laughed. “You don’t need to hire a whole staff right now.”

“How can I hire a tax collector if I don’t even know how to read?!”

Davos sighed before he took three chicken bones from a discarded plate and arranged them so that two made a tent and he laid the other across the middle. “That’s an A. It makes an Ae sound, like’ Aegon’. You know who that is don’t ya?” Gendry nodded. “It also makes an Ah sound. Say that back to me, Ae and Ah.”

“Ae and Ah.”

“Good.” He grabbed a few more bones from other plates and made a long spine with two circles on top of one another right beside it. “That’s a B, this one makes a Bee or a Buh, like ‘Balerion’ or ‘because’. Bee and Buh, repeat that.”

“Bee and Buh

Davos clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, ya just learned your first two letters.” Gendry chuckled as the former smuggler stood up from his chair, glass of wine in hand. “Come to my chambers tomorrow after supper, I’ll teach you the rest of them.”

“Wait, you’re… you’re really gonna teach me to read?”

Davos smiled warmly at the young man. “It would be the greatest honor of my life, Lord Gendry.” He jabbed his finger at his face. “But don’t be late.”

“No, Ser.”

With a curt nod and another clap on the shoulder Davos went off, leaving Gendry alone at the table with his racing and frantic thoughts. He was a Lord of Storm's End. And a Baratheon. He didn’t even know how to read, but in less than a minute he was legitimized and made the keeper of his family’s ancient keep.

He never even dreamt about becoming an actual Baratheon much less ruling Storm’s End. He was peasant in Fleabottom, you couldn’t throw a stone without hitting some kind of bastard, he didn’t mind the label, nor did the fellow smiths in the forges minded because he was good at his job, _DAMN_ good at his job. The only connection he ever thought he might have, or really wanted, was to smith for whatever pampered spoiled rich boy did end up taking over the castle after killing a few Lannisters in battle to avenge his father. But now he was a Lord, and Gendry doubted Lords worked in the forges.

He couldn’t think in here with all the noise buzzing around, he needed some air and quiet. He groaned as the cold winds blew and he shivered as he leaned up against the stone castle once he made his way outside. How _anyone_ could get used to these temperatures was beyond his understanding, but the cold air did help settle his nerves some. 

The familiar _twunk_ arrows hitting a straw filled target led him away from his little corner of solitude. He knew only one person who would rather be outside in one of the coldest places on earth shooting arrows rather than drinking inside where it was nice and warm. 

Sure enough when he walked by an alley and had to quickly take a step back to dodge the arrow, there she was.

“Don’t shoot,” he said, raising his hands in mocking surrender, and Arya lowered her bow. He walked over to her, his head swimming with ale and adrenaline and excitement and fear… “It's nighttime, it's freezing, and everyone's celebrating. You should be celebrating with them.”

The short small girl nocked another arrow. “I am celebrating.” She barely even had to aim when she sent it flying, hitting the target dead center. He nodded and cleared his throat. 

“Yeah, I am too. I'm not Gendry anymore.” Arya turned to look at him, and her brow furrowed. “I'm Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. By order of the queen.”

Arya smiled, and if anything could have melted the snows of Winterfell he was sure it would have been her smile. “Congratulations.”

“Not the whole Stormlands, she gave that to the Tarths. But I’m a lord now. I have a keep, I-... fuck it!” He grabbed hold of her and kissed her hand, cupping her face in his massive calloused hands. When he pulled away words started to spill out, faster and faster, he was no longer even thinking. He just knew that every word sounded right and if he didn’t tell her this now he knew he would burst. “I don't know how to be lord of anything, I hardly know how to use a fork! All I know is you're beautiful, and I love you, and none of it will be worth anything if you're not with me! So be with me…” 

He kneeled on the cold hard ground before her. “Be my wife. Be the Lady of Storm's End.”

That warm beautiful smile of hers melted into one of pity, and his face fell as she bent down to kiss him, pulling him off his knees.

“A kiss isn’t an answer,” he muttered sadly against her lips. 

“You'll be a wonderful lord,” she said as her gray eyes gazed into his blue. “And any lady would be lucky to have you. But I'm not a lady. I never have been. That's not me.

“I don’t want you to be a lady!” he argued. “I- I mean you would be, with the title but- Look, if you think I’ll be ordering you to dress up in silk skirts and commanding you serve tea to fat old rich men or whatever it is Highborn ladies are supposed to do, I won’t! Because I don’t want that, I want _you_!”

“Gendry-.”

“I’ll give up the castle and titles!” he said quickly. “We don’t even need to live in the Stormlands, we can stay up here in the North with your family!”

Her eyes went wide, and she took a half a step back. “You… you would give up your lands and titles? For me?”

Gendry looked at her as if she had grown a second head. “‘Course I would!” Didn’t she understand that a castle was just a castle? Didn’t she get that were a thousand keeps just like Storm’s End but there was only one Arya? “I told you, they’re not worth anything if you aren’t there with me to share them. If a castle and a title and a name keeps you from being with me then someone else can have it.” He quickly looked around the courtyard and spotted an old man bringing up a barrel of ale from the cellar. “Hey!” he yelled out to the servant. “Do you want to be Lord of Storm’s End? Just say the word and it’s yours.”

“Stop being stupid,” Arya laughed, waving the rather confused man on. 

It was the best sound he had ever heard. 

She sighed and crossed her arms in front of her chest, pursing her lips. “... I don’t want to settle down yet. Not for another three or four years,” Arya told him. “I want to go see what’s beyond Westeros. I want to ride a Dothraki stallion bareback in the great grass sea, I want to see the great pyramids of Meereen, I want to see the Wall, I want to see Dorne… But more than that I want to be home with my family after all the wars are fought and the Starks can finally enjoy a hard earned peace. Just for a little while.”

Despite the bitter, biting cold a sweat broke out on his brow. “But at the end of all that.” His voice shook as much as his hands. “When you’ve seen the world, when you’ve enjoyed your peace... you’ll be my wife? You’ll marry me?”

Gendry didn’t know many words. He didn’t even know how to make sense of the letters in books and scrolls. But he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that when Arya said ‘yes’ to him in that dark training yard, it was the best word ever spoken allowed in the history of the common tongue. He beamed, picking her up in his arms and spinning her around madly, kissing her.

“I love you,” he whispered, his breath a cold gray fog and his face a ray of beaming joy.

Arya smirked as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I know. Come on,” she said, grabbing hold of his hand and leading him into the castle when he set her down.

“Where are we going?”

“My chambers.” She turned and the look on her face filled him with fire. “I’m going to ruin you in case there’s ever a number five…”

**Sansa**

Her head pounded and the world spun. Sansa opened her eyes, groaning as she did. The very first rays of sun were streaming through the window. Even that light was too intense and it made her want to curl up and hide under her blankets. Her stomach lurched and it took everything in her not to be sick right there in her room.

No, she realized as she looked around, a look of horror on her face and terror clutching at her heart, not her room. These were not her chambers. These weren’t her chambers at all.

Just as a panic started to settle in her chest she heard a soft snoring from below her, and when she looked over the bed she saw Theon, sleeping on the floor, bare chested but trousers still on. Any lingering fears were washed away when she glanced down at herself and saw thatcher gown still laced and buckled up tight. 

Sansa laid there on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying to recall what happened last night. She remembered the Hound, and then someone, she couldn’t place the face or name, accosting her over his… son? No… no his brother. The man’s brother died waiting for a Maester. She swallowed hard and bowed her head, tugging at a loose thread in the blanket. How many shared his story? How many lost their brothers, their sons, their husbands because she tried to do what was best for them? Hadn’t she almost lost Brienne for that same reason?

 _Daenerys could have reversed the order,_ a rational voice that sounded shockingly like Petyr offered. _She found out what you did and let it happen instead of ordering her men to help, she’s just as responsible as you_.

 **She just told them to follow YOUR orders,** another, unfortunately equal rational voice reminded her, this one snide and sneering and all Arya and if it was possible to be angry at your own self conscious Sansa would have been. 

Sansa shook away both her thoughts. It wouldn’t matter what she thought, what mattered was what the Northern lords wanted done to her. Jon wouldn't let them kill her. He wouldn’t, for anything else he was still her brother and Sansa was still as much a member of the pack as the rest of them and she was still a Stark, which hopefully the lords would remember. Arya had no desire to marry or rule, Bran was... whatever Bran was, and Jon was probably going to go south and stay there with Daenerys if they both managed to survive Cersei. Sansa was the only Stark who _wanted_ to rule the North, who _wanted_ to stay in Winterfell and do her duties as a Stark. The name still meant something, the direwolf still stirred feelings of loyalty and protection and strength for the Northmen. They would remember that when it came time to reap what she sowed.

They had to.

After climbing out of the bed as quiet as she could, she pulled back on her stockings and boots then grabbed the blanket from the bed and covered Theon with it. She looked down at the Ironborn for a moment before she pressed her lips to his forehead, and even in his sleep he smiled. Sansa left his room and made her way to her own chambers, not even bothering to hold the groan back when she saw the Kingslayer waiting outside them. 

“My Lady,” he greeted with a polite nod of his head. Amusement shone in his eyes as he took in her ensemble, the same gown she was wearing the night before. “You must be an early riser as well.”

“What do you want?” she muttered, in no mood for snide Lannister comments.

“I was wondering if I might be able to speak to you,” he said as he followed her into her chambers.

“What do you want?”

“I…. Was simply wondering if, with the Lady of Winterfell's permission, I might be given an invitation to stay. Here. For the foreseeable future.”

Sansa furrowed her brow. “The dead are gone, we’ve won.”

“I’m aware.”

“And the dragon Queen is going to be marching against your sister soon with two dragons and ‘the greatest army the world has ever seen’.” 

“I know.”

She glared at him. “If this is some plot to help Cersei-!”

“It’s not! It’s…” He took a deep breath. “I will not help you execute my sister or assist you in getting her off the throne, but I don’t want to help her stay on it either.”

“Then what? You want to wait out of the war in Winterfell?”

“Yes, but there’s more than that.” A warm expression lightened his face. “I have found... another reason to stay.”

Sansa’s face fell, and another memory of last night came clear. “Her clothes weren’t damp!” she groaned, letting her face fall in her hands, her cheeks going as red as her hair. 

“Pardon?”

“Nothing!” Sansa flopped down in her chair. “It’s nothing. But… Lady Brienne? You and Lady Brienne?”

“Yes,” he smiled.

“But… she’s… not...”

Jaime raised his brow, any amusement replaced with sharpness. “What?” he demanded. “She’s not _what_?”

“She’s not… Cersei.”

“Really?” he drolled. “You could have fooled me, they both look _so_ similar.” 

“If you want to be snide you can start packing whatever bags you brought with you.” She smirked. “I’m sure Brienne wouldn’t be missing much.”

He returned the smugness in earnest. “Well I’d be happy to show you what she’d be missing out on but it looks like the floors were just done, I wouldn’t want to put a dent in it.”

She ignored the quib he threw back, she had bigger things to worry about than exchanging barbs with the Kingslayer. Her plot regarding Last Hearth… Brienne being with Jaime Lannister would put a large damper in it. How could she sell a marriage when the North found out she was no longer a maid? When they realized she was with the Kingslayer of all people? 

Why was Jaime with Brienne anyway?

Sansa saw the looks they gave, saw the way Brienne stood up for him, and whenever she spoke about their adventures together there was a tender fondness in her voice but, as loathe as she was to admit it, Jaime Lannister was one of the most handsome men Sansa ever saw and her sworn shield was… unconventional, to be incredibly kind. Jaime could have had any woman in the world, he _had_ one of the most beautiful women in the world, a Queen at that, in his bed. But for some reason had chosen Brienne of Tarth, Sansa’s closest confidant and companion who she shared her secrets with, who sat in on war meetings, who knew the North’s numbers and defenses. He wanted everyone to believe that he was choosing Brienne over Cersei Lannister of all people based on romantic feelings alone m?

No. He was plotting. He would try to weasel out secrets from Brienne, secrets that could destroy the North and her family, and who knows what he learned just in this short amount of time here already, what he learned last night after they were done… Sansa couldn’t send him back to Cersei, who knows what could happen if she did? But two could play the lying game.

Sansa stood and clasped her hands in front of her gown. “I care for Brienne very deeply, Ser Jaime.”

“As do I,” he said, with a warm brightness in his expression. 

_Nothing but a con from a good actor._

“Do you think she feels the same for you as you do for her?”

“I do,” he said firmly. 

She nodded slowly, as though considering his words. “Then you have my permission to stay here at my invitation as my guest.”

Jaime bit back a beaming smile. “Thank you, My Lady. I’ll allow you to return to your sleep.”

He bowed his head and left, shutting the door behind him and Sansa glaring after him. 

**Jon**

He groaned low in his throat as he sat up in his bed, trying to rub the pain from his head.

“How was your barrel of ale last night?” Daenerys asked as she sat up beside him.

“Was I that bad?” She just raised a brow and he groaned again. “I’m sorry. I never should have gotten that drunk.”

“You were celebrating. Had I might have been able to join you I might have been just as bad.” Jon chuckled but his smile fell when he looked at her. Something was wrong.

“Hey…” Jon reached out and rubbed her shoulders. “Are you alright? Did I-... Did I do anything? When I was drunk?” His eyes went wide. “I didn’t hurt you did I?!”

“No, no,” she assured him quickly, taking his hand in hers. “No, you didn’t hurt me” She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Not unless you count nearly puking on my robe but I managed to move it in time.” Daenerys gnawed at her lip. “Do you remember anything about the other night? Anything about what you did? Or said?”

Jon scraped at the furthest corner of his memories but he could not remember. The last thing that came to mind was one of the northmen challenging him to down a horn of brandy all in one go, which he had done… or at least he thought he had done it, he wasn’t sure.

“I’m sorry I don’t. Why? Did something happen?”

“No,” she muttered, turning her gaze to the floor. “No it didn’t…” 

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Another forced smile. “Get dressed and break your fast. We have a war council.”

“Alright, then afterwards I need to call a meeting with the Northern Lords. I saw the way some of them were looking at Sansa the other night. They’re angry, rightfully so but I need to handle this before one of them takes it into their own hands.” He took a deep breath. “And you will need to handle what she did to the Dothraki. I know you don’t need my permission but know that whatever you decide, I’ll support you. I swear it.”

For a moment he thought she saw tears well in her eyes but they were gone as soon as they came. She rested her hand on his cheek and gently stroked his face. “I know you will.”

“Please,” he begged softly. He combed his fingers throughout her long silver hair. “Dany, tell me what’s wrong…”

“Nothing.” She took hold of his hand and brought it to her lips. “Nothing, I’m fine. Let’s get ready for the day.”

After they were both dressed and washed for the day Daenerys had a breakfast of warm bread, berries, eggs fried in pork fat and bacon brought up along with a pitcher of juice squeezed from a sweet eastern fruit Daenerys brought with her from Essos. Jon tried engaging her in conversation but she was distant and far away, a thousand different thoughts racing throughout her mind, and whenever she did speak it was in short one word answers. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, but if she didn’t want to talk Jon wasn’t going to push her. 

After they were done eating the two of them made their way to the war room where a small group was gathered around a map with wooden markers all over it. Sansa, Arya and Bran stood on one side of the table while Jorah, Selwyn, Varys, Tyrion, Missandei and Greyworm made their stand on the other. Brienne stood ever faithful by his sister's side, and Theon, a handful of Dothraki and Lord Royce were there as well. Daenerys joined her advisers and Jon stood at the head of the table, looking over it.

Greyworm was the first to speak, taking away two of the markers representing the Unsullied. “Half are gone.”

Jon slid some other markers away. “The Northmen as well.” More commanders took away more markers, leaving the map with far less than what they started. Varys grabbed a few gold painted ones and put them on King’s Landing. 

“And the Golden Company has arrived in King's Landing, courtesy of the Greyjoy fleet. The balance has grown distressingly even…”

Missandei furrowed her brow. “When the people find out what we have done for them, that we saved them-

“Cersei will make sure they don't believe it,” Daenerys interrupted. She looked at the Red Keep, glowering at the lion marker overtop of it. “We will hit her hard. We will rip her out root and stem.”

The objective here is to remove Cersei _without_ destroying King's Landing,” Tyrion said rather wearily, as though he had this conversation a hundred times before. 

“Thankfully, she's losing allies by the day,” Varys added. “Yara Greyjoy has retaken the Iron Islands in her queen's name so we have our own fleet.” Theon swelled with pride. “The new Prince of Dorne also pledges his support on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“The head of Cersei Lannister after you’ve executed her along with the remains of his cousin that still lay in the dungeons.”

Daenerys chuckled. “Tell him he is welcome to whatever burned parts of the Queen he desires with my eternal thanks. And of course I will return his cousin to him so she might have a proper burial.”

Tyrion turned a shade of sickly green. “Your Grace, I-... I actually need to speak to you in private in regards to her execution. Nothing that will affect the war effort but there is something I need to tell you.”

Daenerys raised a silver brow but simply gave a curt nod and turned back to the table. “I’m glad for the Dornish support but it won’t matter how many lords turn against her. As long as she sits on the Iron Throne, she can call herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. We need the capital.”

“The people of King’s Landing have no love for Cersei,” Tyrion offered. “They are by no means sowing dragon banners and praying for their true queens return but if given a new choice they will cast her aside.”

“We'll surround the city,” Jon said. “Set up a siege. “If the Iron Fleet tries to ferry in more food, the dragons will destroy them. If the Lannisters and the Golden Company attack, we'll defeat them in the field.”

“Once the people see that Cersei is our _only_ enemy,” Tyrion said pointedly. “Her reign is over.”

Jon could see her thinking and finally she gave a curt nod. “All right.”

“The men we have left are exhausted,” Sansa piped up. “Many of them are wounded. They'll fight better if they have time to rest and recuperate.”

“How long do you suggest?” Daenerys asked. 

“I can't say for certain, not without talking to the officers.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes at the red head. “I came north to fight alongside you at great cost to my armies and myself. I set aside the war with Cersei to help face the dead. Now that the time has come to reciprocate, you want to postpone.”

“It's not just our people!” Sansa snapped. “They’re yours too! You want to throw them into a war they're not ready to fight?”

“Now you care about men being prepared for battle?” Jon shot back, and his sister's face went crimson. “The Northern forces will honor their promises and their allegiance to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!”

“I’m not saying don’t have them honor their promises, all I’m saying is give them a little while to recover!”

“You don’t get to decide what we do with our armies!”

“ **_Stop_ **.” 

Jon and Sansa both turned to Daenerys who was looking between the two of them. “Lady Sansa’s right.” A stunned silence overwhelmed the whole room, none so much as the shock that engulfed the wolves. “The North has been at near constant war for the last five years, they just fought the biggest battle in their lives. They deserve a rest but I can’t afford it. _They_ can’t afford it. Every minute we sit here gives Cersei more time to prepare. You think if she beats me she won’t come North afterwards? She won’t care if your men are weary of fighting.”

“She’s also not patient,” Tyrion added. “Once she receives word that we survived the dead, she will start matching her men towards Winterfell.” 

“No army has ever ranged this far North, especially during winter.”

“That's because most of the commanders of those armies cared about whether the men made it back,” the dwarf pointed out. “An aspect that Cersei is sorely lacking, Also if the myths are to be believed, now that the White Walkers are dead the snow will start melting soon and an eternal spring is about to hit. Our best chance for everyone’s lives is to have the dragons destroy Euron’s fleet, and have the unsullied, Northmen and Dothraki beat her soldiers in the field.”

Sansa pursed her lips for a moment and then nodded, as much of a concession as could be expected.

“Maybe we won’t even need to do that,” Varys added, eyeing the gaggle of red and gold markers in the west. “The Lannister army is far more loyal to your brother than your sister. If we can convince Ser Jaime to turn them against her, that's another thirty thousand fresh troops.”

Tyrion shook his head. “Jaime won’t hinder our effort but he won’t help us either. As such he’s chosen to remain here as a guest of the Lady of Winterfell.” Jon saw Sansa glance over at Brienne who met her eyes briefly and then quickly averted her gaze, fighting back a shy little smile. “So if all are in agreement Jon and Ser Davos will march south on the Kingsroad with the Northern troops, the bulk of the remaining Dothraki and Unsullied,” the dwarf continued looking around the room for any objections and receiving none. “A smaller group of us will ride to White Harbor, and sail from there to Dragonstone with our queen and her dragons accompanying us from above.”

Daenerys shook her head. “You’re forgetting about the Iron Fleet. As we’ve both said, Cersei is probably already making preparations. If she doesn’t have an ambush waiting for us at Dragonstone I’d be stunned.”

“But she won’t expect you to sail to Tarth,” Selwyn said, moving some of the markers to the small island. “It’s a greater distance from there to King’s Landing to be sure, but her spies and Euron will be looking north, not south. You could sail the Tarth and Greyjoy fleet right up the Straits of Tarth and into the Blackwater and she would never see it coming.”

Daenerys nodded slowly. “You and Yara come in, engage with whatever of Eurons forces she has surrounding the keep for a few minutes... They’ll be too consumed with the naval battle to prepare themselves for the dragons.”

“Not to mention it will give me a chance to gather what remains of the Stormland forces to fight for you. After the Blackwater and the battle at Winterfell there are not many of us but what ones of us are left will fight for you. Between Tywin not helping in the rebellion until the absolute last moment, Cersei murdering Robert, Jaime cuckolding the king and Tyrion burning Stannis’ fleet no Stormlander has any love for the Lannisters.” 

Brienne shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

Daenerys gave the tall man a curt nod then looked around the room at the rest of the group. “We have won the Great War,” she decreed. “Now we will win the Last War. In _all_ Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa glared but said nothing, “men will live without fear and cruelty under their rightful queen.”

With another nod her men started to leave. Jon started to as well but Daenerys held up her hand to stop him. “Lady Sansa,” she called out before the redhead could make her exit. “Arya, a moment please.” Both wolves looked at one another before they turned back to Daenerys. 

The Queen closed her eyes and her tongue flicked out to lick her lips. Jon could see her chin wobble just a bit before she steeled herself. When she opened her eyes again she found Jon’s, and she did not look away. 

“Your brother needs a word with you in private.”

Tears rushed to his eyes and his jaw dropped to his breast. Daenerys gave a small nod, barely noticeable to any but him before she turned and walked away, head held high.


	21. Chapter 21

_ I can do this. I can do this. I have to do this.  _

Jon could scarcely breathe as he led Sansa and Arya who was pushing a silent expressionless Bran through the Godswood and up the path to the Heart Tree. He hadn’t planned on telling them today, or without some kind of plan. And maybe a cup or two of ale to help aid him in his courage.

He said or did something last night when he was drunk that pushed Daenerys into accepting his desire and need to tell his family, to accepting that he no longer wanted to be a bastard, an other, a ‘good enough’. He owed his family the truth but more than that he owed himself the truth. Jon just prayed that a vow sworn before the Old Gods would be enough of a reason to convince Sansa to keep it a secret.

When she was a girl Sansa preferred the Seven to the New Gods. There was pageantry and festivals and beautiful tapestries, grand marble septs and stories and songs associated with the Seven. Not so much with the Old Gods. They were nameless, faceless apart from the heart trees, there were no songs, there were no beautiful paintings and stained glass windows depicting them in all their glorious deeds, there were no elaborate holidays… But after Sansa returned from the South, she hadn’t gone near the Sept that their father had built for Lady Catelyn. She was by no means full of religious vigor, but now when Sansa prayed she came to the Old Gods the same as the rest of her siblings, and even she would know a holy sacred vow sworn here would be binding. Especially for a Stark.

When they reached the large white tree Jon stood in front of it for a long moment, closing his eyes and letting the icy chill of the north give him strength.  _ Will I still be welcomed here if I embrace the other part of me? _ he prayed.  _ Will I still be able to ask you for help if I accept that I’m ice AND fire? Will you accept me? _

“Jon?” Arya called out to him, drawing him from his thoughts. He opened his eyes and turned towards her and found her looking nervous, with concern dancing in the gray of her eyes. “Is everything alright?”

“Of course it’s not,” Sansa grumbled. “His Queen probably ordered him to burn the bloody Godswood down.”

He glared at the red head. “No, Sansa, actually she didn’t order me to do anything. Alright, you understand we'd all be dead if not for her. We'd be corpses marching down to King's Landing.”

“You were the one that killed the Night King!”

“Her men gave their lives defending Winterfell! They gave their lives defending the North! Even after what you did they still fought for your home!”

She promptly ignored that part. “And we will never forget them. That doesn't mean that I want to kneel to someone who-!”

“I swore myself and the North to her cause!” he shouted. “She’s more than made good on her promise to help us and received nothing but scorn in return!”

“It’s her country!” Sansa yelled back. “She believes she’s entitled to it, she has to fight for it! Isn’t that what you told the Wildings when you commanded they fought in the Battle of the Bastards? If they were going to live in the North they had to defend it? Why should she be treated any differently?”

“You’re both right.”

Jon and Sansa turned towards the exceptionally calm Arya. The redhead scoffed at her. “In what world are we both right?”

“Daenerys had an obligation to fight for the North,” she said calmly. “If she won’t let us have independence then we are her country and she needs to protect it. But we also needed her. We needed her army, her dragons. Jon did the right thing by bending the knee.”

“And now the war of the dead is over, we don’t need her anymore, there is no reason to still bend the knee.”

“He made a promise and bent the knee,” she said sternly. “He can’t just tell her it doesn’t count because our favor came first.”

“No but she expects us to grovel at her feet-!.”

“She’s not asking you to grovel!” Jon cried. “You don’t even know her, Sansa! You don’t know her and you decided that she’s not trustworthy!”

“I know she’s not trustworthy because she isn't one of us! She has you thinking that she’s a sweet pure innocent girl who could never ever play the game when she wants that throne as badly as anyone else! Daenerys has  _ suffered _ for the power she has! She has  _ killed _ and  _ burned _ for the power she has and she will do so again to keep it!”

“Aye I know she will!” he roared, sending the birds nesting in the nearby trees soaring into the air. In the distance Rheagal was screaming in rage, and Jon shuddered, knowing the anger was coming from him. “Alright I know what she has done, the good and the bad! But not everyone is scheming all the time to get ahead, Sansa! Not everyone is Cersei, not everyone is Littlefinger, not everyone is  _ you _ !”

“How  _ dare-!” _

“And you want to talk about people being untrustworthy because they aren’t your family?” he cut her off. “well neither is Brienne who’s fucking the man who attacked our father in the streets! Neither is Theon Greyjoy who took over the castle after he betrayed Robb and tried to kill Bran and Rickon! But you and I and others trust them because I know that they saved your life! Well guess what? Daenerys saved mine! Or does no other life outside of your own matter?”

Arya swallowed hard as she looked between the two of them. 

“We're a family,” she said firmly, but there was a small shake in her voice. “The four of us. We can’t fight amongst ourselves like this, because someone will end up outside of the pack.” Arya turned to look up at Sansa. “They will be a lone wolf, and the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. We are the last of the Starks.” Jon’s anger melted away in a rush of pain and he looked down at the snow covered ground. “If Father saw the two of you arguing this way over politics, over a woman who has given us no cause to doubt her intentions, a woman whose life he helped save and who in turn helped save ours… Father used his last words to lie on the Sept of Baelor to try to save us. Robb and Mother went to war to try to save us, Jon bent the knee to save us, and he did. By trusting Daenerys, and we should too. Starks trust each other, and that includes trusting others we swear by, like you with Brienne or him with Daenerys. I know it’s hard to believe with everything you’ve gone through, but not everyone is out to get you and the family, Sansa.”

Jon licked his lips and lifted his head. “I've never been a Stark.”

“Oh shut up, yes you are,” Sansa grumbled, still apparently angry at him for exploding on her. “You're just as much Ned Stark's child as any of us.”

“You're my brother,” Arya said softly. “Not my half-brother or my bastard brother. My brother.”

Jon swallowed hard. For a moment he considered just leaving the Godswood. He would tell them this was all a mistake and never mention it again, not to Daenerys, not to his sisters, not to anyone.

“It's your choice.”

The three of them turned to look at Bran who had sat and watched without comment, patiently, silent. Sansa and Arya looked rather confused but said nothing, instead just turning back to Jon who knew, as hard as this would be, he would regret it for the rest of his life if he did not speak up now.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. “But you have to swear you'll never tell another soul.”

“What is it?” Arya asked and Jon shook his head

“You have to swear it, before the Old Gods, before I tell you.”

Sansa scoffed. “How can I promise to keep a secret if I don't even know what it is?”

“Because we're family!” he yelled. “Swear it,” he added softer. “Please.”

“I swear it,” Arya said firmly.

There was a long tense moment where Jon and Sansa locked eyes, Stark gray on icy blue before she finally muttered. “I swear it.”

Jon took a deep breath. He wanted to stare down at the snow but his father taught them when you speak a confession you owe it to someone to look them in the eye while you make it. “Things didn’t happen the way they say it did. I am not… who you think I am,” he began, as vague a statement as any. Both do them waited for him to continue. “You know the story of how Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped Lyanna Stark? How he raped her and left her for dead at the Tower of Joy?”

“Everyone knows that story,” said Arya.

“Where are you going with this?” asked Sansa.

“It wasn’t kidnapping.” He looked from one of his sisters' faces to the other, both of them utterly perplexed. “They were in love. They ran off together. Rheagar got an annulment from his first wife and married Lyanna in a secret ceremony in Dorne.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes at Jon. “Is that what Daenerys told you?” she spat. “Did she make up some story to make her rapist brother look better?”

“It’s not a story,” Bran added calmly. “Every word he speaks is the absolute truth.”

“So Lyanna and Rheagar were in love.” Arya shrugged. “It’s tragic that a war was started over it but what does that have to do with us? Why are you telling us this?”

“What it has to do with us is Rhaegar and Lyanna had a son. A trueborn son that she knew Robert would kill if he ever found out about. So, as she laid on the birthing bed bleeding to death, her last words were… were to her brother, begging him to keep the baby safe and he did.”

“No…” Sansa said, taking a step back, voice choked in emotions. “No you’re lying…”

Arya’s eyes filled with tears. When her lip began to tremble it made him want to fall to his knees and proclaim it all a lie. “Jon…”

“Her brother took it home to Winterfell,” he finished, his own voice shaking. “Where he lied to everyone and claimed the baby as his bastard so he could protect him from Robert. He changed the baby’s name from Daeron Targaryen, the third of his name, to Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell.” 

A heavy silence fell over the Godswood. Arya was trying her hardest not to cry and failing in that endeavor and Sansa stood frozen in shock. “I am still your brother,” he said, looking between the two girls. “We may not share Fathers blood but that won’t ever change.”

“How long have you known?” Sansa asked, doing a far better job at hiding her emotions then Arya. 

“Only a few days. The night before the battle.”

“And how do you know for sure it’s the truth? How did you even find all this out?” 

“Bran. He saw it.” Both girls looked towards the younger Stark who simply nodded. “And Sam read it in a diary he read at the Citadel. They pieced it together and told me.”

“So you- you’re not a Stark,” Arya choked out, the sound far more painful then the dagger he took to the heart. “You… you’re not-.”

“ _ I am your brother _ ,” he said again, firmer. “I will  _ always _ be your brother, Arya.”

“He’s Lyanna’s son,” Sansa added. “He has as much Stark blood as you or I.”

“Father he- he lied to us! He lied to us, to you, to  _ everyone!” _

“He was trying to protect me.”

“He should have trusted us!” she cried as the tears started to fall. He was reminded them just how small and young she really was. “He should have trusted you! He made you suffer, he made Mother suffer, he made her believe-! When she didn’t even need to-!” 

“Father never cheated on her,” Sansa muttered, looking down at the ground. “He was always faithful to her. We should be grateful for that.”

“I don’t care about their stupid marriage vows!” she yelled. “I care that he lied! I care that Jon isn’t-!” A sob ripped past her lips and Jon immediately fell to his knees and wrapped her in a tight hug, biting back his own tears.

“Get off me!” Arya tried to push him away but she might as well have tried to move a mountain.

“No!” he said, voice trembling like a leaf in the wind. “Never! I am your  _ brother _ , Arya! I don’t care what blood I have or what my legal name is, I am your brother!”

“I said get  _ OFF!” _

She shoved him hard and Jon fell into the snows, tears falling down his face as he watched her run from the grove. 

“Arya, wait!” he cried out, scrambling to his feet.

“Let her go.” Bran spoke softly but his words held him fast. “You were allowed time to process it, she’s owed the same.”

Jon closed his eyes, letting the winds whip around him. This was the wrong choice. He hurt his sister, he hurt a young girl, he hurt someone he loved… All so he could be selfish and want something more and better for himself.

“You’re not a bastard,” Sansa said, drawing him from his thoughts. He opened his eyes and turned towards her. He could see the wheels turning in her mind. “If they married, that makes you trueborn. That makes you the last living son of the prince.”

“Sansa-.”

“That makes you the true heir to the Iron Throne… That makes you the rightful king.” Her big blue eyes went wide. “Does Daenerys know?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “She does.”

“Is she okay with this?”

“She is. She’s the one who gave me permission to tell you two.” He hardened his gaze. “Because she is trusting you to never speak of this.”

“Because she knows if the truth got out that would threaten her illegal claim.”

“It’s not an illegal claim, Sansa! She is our Queen!”

“And you are our King!” She grabbed hold of his arms, a glint in her eyes burning a bright excited blue. “Jon, the Northern Lords will support your claim, others would flock to you if they knew the truth! Stark blood ruling in the North and South, the North would never be threatened again!  _ Our family  _ would never be threatened again!”

Jon yanked away from her as panic began to set in. “You swore,” he reminded her in a trembling voice, both in fear and rage. “Sansa, you  _ swore _ !” She looked down at the ground and this time it was him who took hold of her shoulders and she quickly looked back up at him. “I didn’t tell you so we could start planning treason in the Godswood! I told you because I thought I could trust you! Daenerys didn’t believe me, she thought you would shout it from the Wall to Dorne! I had to convince her that the girl who when Father demanded to know who tore the tapestries in the Arms Room kept silent knowing me and Robb were in there playing around was still alive, I had to convince her that Cersei and Littlefinger and all the rest of those pathetic shits who hurt you hadn’t beaten that part out yet!”

She swallowed hard, and tears fell down her pale cheeks, and his own eyes grew wet for reasons he couldn’t explain. “You don’t like her. You don’t trust her, I know that, Sansa. But Daenerys doesn’t trust you either. Prove her wrong. Show her she can trust you, prove to her that you can come back from what they turned you into.”

Sansa sniffed away her tears and bowed her head. Jon said nothing, she said nothing, and he simply stared at her, pleading, desperate. “If you were to sit on the throne-.”

“Seven hells, Sansa!”

“-the North would be safe from any Southern threat,” she continued, her voice growing. “No one would ever think of hurting us again.”

“They will kill her, Sansa!” he barked. “If you tell anyone, and the Lord's command I press my claim, they will demand she step down and she won’t! You said it yourself, she’s suffered too much to turn back now, and when she refused to heed they’ll do what they can to get rid of her and Sansa, I swear to all the Gods if you put my family in danger-!”

“You didn’t even know she was family until three days ago!”

“ **_I’m talking about my bloody son!_ ** ”

He hadn’t meant to say it, it just came out in his rage. Sansa’s eyes went wide and she took a step back. Jon closed his eyes in defeat. “She’s pregnant,” the redhead muttered and he nodded. “How far along?”

“She hasn’t seen a Maester yet, she just knows she’s carrying a boy. Bran told her, the morning after the battle.”

“Of course he did.” Sansa wrapped her arms around herself. “This complicates things…”

“Your plan to commit treason? Yes, I suppose it does.”

“And are you sure it’s y-.”

“Finish that bloody sentence and I will belt you!”

Sansa glared at him but then she softened her expression. “Have you thought of a name yet?”

“No,” he said shortly. 

She nodded slowly. “You should name him Robb. He liked you the most.”

“Please,” he grumbled. “You were his perfect little sister, you could have burned his chambers to the ground and he would have still adored you to the ends of the earth and back.” His lips tugged up into a sad smile. “You know he hated Joffrey from the moment he saw him looking at you. He couldn’t stand him. Truth be told though I think any boy who had an eye for you he would have detested.”

“I should have listened to him. To all of you, you all saw what I couldn’t. Or didn’t want to,” she muttered.

“You were a little girl, you wanted to be part of a fairytale. We thought he was a right little prick, none of us had any idea… Even Father didn’t see how bad he really was.”

“He threatened to kill Arya. He cut her friend.”

“And that should have been the end of your illusion.” A guilty look overwhelmed her and she looked down at the ground. “But Father saw what he did too.” She raised her head a hair. “He could have broken the betrothal, it wasn’t legally binding yet. He let it go on because he was afraid to stand up to Robert. He had more responsibility than you in that situation, you were just a child.”

A sad little smile rose to her lips. “You’re still calling him Father.”

“Of course I am. Eddard Stark may not have aired me but he raised me as his own. He is my father, just like I’m your brother, just like you’re my sister. Just like the babe Daenerys is carrying will be your nephew and she’ll be your good-sister here soon.”

Her eyes went wide with shock. “You…. You’re marrying her?”

He nodded. “Before the baby comes. I will not suffer my son the title of bastard even for a moment.”

“Congratulations, I suppose. An expected announcement but I thought you would have waited until after the war and all… decisions have been made,” she muttered, looking down at the ground.

Jon sighed. “I promise you, Sansa, whatever the Lords and I decide, you will walk out of the room with your head on your shoulders.”

“ _ I was only trying to protect them!” _

“I know that but your actions still need to have consequences. Who knows how many people died because of your decisions? Because you couldn’t trust Daenerys? Not only that but I need to handle this or else they might take it into their own hands.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and she lowered her head. “They already did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night. One of the men’s brothers… he died waiting on a Maester. He was drunk, he grabbed me, threatened me…. Theon scared him away before he did anything though.”

His hand gripped the hilt of his sword so tight the knuckles turned stark white. 

“Who?” he growled low in his throat, his body trembling in rage.

“I don’t know.”

“Could you recognize his face if you saw him again?”

“I would but Jon, if you start throwing our men in the dungeons they will turn against-.”

“Then let them turn,” he said sharply. “Family is more important than games and plotting and keeping allies happy. The next time you see him, you point him out to me, and you tell Theon the same. Do you understand?”

Sansa nodded but then she gnawed at her lip. “You said I would walk away with my head with your decision. What about hers?”

Jon opened his mouth and closed it. “... Would you do any less to her?” was all he could manage. “If it were your own men? Would you expect me to stand in the way of your decisions? Would you stand in the way of mine?”

She sniffed away her tears and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, reminding him of the small soft girl she used to be.

“I know. But… What we were talking about earlier, about you telling the world… You swore Sansa. More than that, it’s putting my family in danger. It’s putting  _ our  _ family in danger, because he is just as much as you as he is of me.”

Sansa looked down at the ground for a long moment before she spoke slowly. “I swear I won’t ever do anything to put your family in danger.”

“That’s now what I asked you to swear.” 

She closed her eyes and licked her lips. “I won’t tell anyone about your parentage.”

“Swear it.”

“I already did.”

“Swear it again.”

Another deep breath. “I swear I won’t tell.”

Jon nodded and took a step back. “Get back inside where it’s warm, it’s getting cold out.”

She nodded and made her way back down the path without another word.

“Will they tell?” he asked softly when he and Bran were alone, watching her leave. 

“Arya won’t,” Bran said without a shadow of a doubt. “She will need some time to come to terms with this but no matter how she feels she will never tell a living soul.”

“And Sansa?” Bran was silent for a time. A long time. Jon turned to him, eyes pleading. “Please,” he whispered. If he had to take that step to protect Daenerys, to protect his son he would. Without question. But it would be a duty he would wear heavy on his shoulders for the rest of his life. “Bran…”

“Sansa hasn’t made her decision yet,” he said after a long while. “For now I see silence. But one choice will ripple like on a wave. Which way the ripples go I cannot see yet.” Jon swore he saw the reflection of flames in his eyes. “Have you been down there,” he muttered, looking far past Jon in another time, another place. “Have you seen? Children… little children burned.”

“Bran…” The small boy began to tremble and Jon took a hold of him. “Bran!”

“She will rise again. And when she does the wolves will burn, the fish will burn, the stags, the lions… Dragons will reign over a world of ash with hate in their hearts for a thousand years.”

“Who? Daenerys? My son?  _ Talk to me! _ ”

“He will not be your son. She will take him from your arms and you will be nothing but a memory of ash.”

“Bran!”

He blinked and turned back to Jon, sick with fear. “A world choked in flame will kill as many as a world choked in cold,” he said softly. “There needs to be a balance of ice and fire both. A tip of the scales in either direction spells doom and death and blood for all.”

“What do you mean?” Jon demanded. “What did you see? Is Sansa going to tell or not?”

Bran slowly turned back to the Weirwood Tree. “I think I’m going to go now.”

“Tell me what you saw!” But his eyes turned white, and he was gone.


	22. Chapter 22

“What the fuck do you mean Cersei is pregnant?”

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably as he stood before his Queen, avoiding her eyes that were narrowed in shock and rage. 

“I’m not sure how far along,” he admitted with a slight shake in his voice. “But Jaime confirmed it. Cersei is with child. _His_ child.”

“And you didn’t think this information was at all prudent?”

“I didn’t.” He took a step towards her. “Your Grace, this changes nothing. We can still capture King’s Landing, and when the people see you are willing to spare your enemies-.”

“This changes _everything,_ Tyrion! If the people did not flock to her or the siege lasted too long that they blamed me for the lack of food coming in I could merely burn down the Red Keep with her in it! I could have sent men in to kill her! If we needed to sack the city and she was killed in the process that would have been fine but now I can’t kill her!”

“You can take her prisoner instead. You can even put her in a tower cell if it helps alleviate your guilt.”

“I told you I will not put a single man or woman in chains, even your sister! Being shackled in a room with a view and a feather mattress doesn’t make anyone any less shackled!”

“Just until the baby’s born!” Tyrion added quickly. “Then do whatever is necessary. Behead her, burn her, sic your dragons on her, I truly do not care, but all you need to do is wait a few months. The people will understand there are mitigating circumstances to your take no prisoner approach.”

“Mitigating circumstances that lead to a possible claimant to the throne is born,” Daenerys spat.

“Not if we don’t tell the people he’s a claimant.”

Her face fell. “You want to lie to your nephew or niece.”

“My brother will have no problem lying about who the child’s mother is just as long as he’s named the father. He will raise it and as far as the child needs to know his mother was a woman Jaime had a tender affection for who died in the birthing bed.”

Daenerys shook her head, leaning back against the chair. She stared into the flames, grateful when she saw nothing but fire. 

“I will not lie to a child.” She thought of Jon, how tormented he was to learn he had been othered and mistreated all his life, all for a lie. “The babe will grow, with knowledge of who his mother and father is,” she decided firmly, letting him know there was no more argument. “He or she will be raised in King’s Landing with every proper benefit befitting a Highborn hostage. I will give him the same respect and standing that Ned Stark gave to Theon Greyjoy. The baby will be more like a ward, if anything else and hopefully they will grow to give me their loyalty and fear and love.”

Tyrion’s expression soured with fear. “Your Grace, I do not think my brother will consent to that. I know he won’t, as a matter of fact. His child being raised under the eye of Aerys’ daughter-.”

“You do not often consent to giving hostages, Lord Tyrion,” she reminded him sharply. 

Tyrion threw a glare for half a moment before he remembered himself. “Jaime had been denied the opportunity to be a real father three seperate times. Do not make him go through it a forth.”

“If the father was anyone else besides your brother would you object this strongly? Would you think me unfair, unkind or unwise because of my choice?”

Tyrion pursed his lips before he looked down at the ground. “No, Your Grace,” he grumbled, hating the truth in her words.

Daenerys thought of the blonde woman from her dreams. The girl with astonishing blue eyes and long golden curls. Tyrion’s curls. “This babe will not be your brother's last chance to be a father,” she said softly, and Tyrion lifted his head to look at her. “I swear it.” She leaned back in her chair, signaling the conversation close to over. “I do not think I need to remind you that a plot of this magnitude is to be kept secret? From all others and especially Ser Jaime? Who would not hesitate to kill me if he knew what I planned to do and go join up forces with his sister again?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“I thought not. But let me remind you, Tyrion, I will not speak of this plan to anyone else. I will tell my men once we reach red keep the Queen is not to be harmed but I will not tell a single soul my plans for the child afterward. So if word gets out, I know it will be you who betrayed my confidence. You know what happens to people who break my trust.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

She gave him a curt nod, dismissing him from her presence. He turned and walked out, leaving her alone with far too many thoughts.

Unfortunately for her before she could begin to sort them out Jon walked in, not even bothering to knock first. 

When he walked into their chambers she expected relief and a smile that the weight of the secret was relieved from his shoulders, even if it was just the two Stark girls. Instead all she saw was a bowed head and misery. Misery and regret and fear, 

“What happened?” Daenerys demanded. She rose from her seat besides the fire and stormed over to him, taking his face in her hands. “What’s going on? Did you tell them?”

“Arya is heartbroken” he muttered. “She’s upset at father, at the situation… She was crying.”

“You cannot blame her for that,” Daenerys said, trying to hide her impatience. Arya was not the one she was worried about. “She’s a young girl who just found out her father lied to her all her life, who made her mother go through the pain of thinking she was dishonored and found out her favorite older brother isn’t actually her brother. She’s resilient. She’ll bounce back and things will go back to the way they were between you two.”

Jon nodded slowly and Daenerys swallowed hard. “And Sansa?”

“I don’t know,” he said in a strained whisper. Daenerys took a hurried step back, choking back a scream. “I made her swear twice, in front of the Weirwood Tree, once before and once after but then she started talking about how if a Stark was king it would protect the North and the family… Bran says things are safe for now but the future isn’t clear.”

“Jon.” Tears and emotions flooded her voice. “If she tells…” 

“She won’t.”

“But if she does-!”

“She won’t!”

He finally turned his gaze from the floor and she did not see fierce loyalty to his sister or House she saw desperation. Frantic, distraught desperation. “She can’t…”

Jon was afraid. Daenerys could see it and what was more was Rheagal was fearful as well. No… no Rheagal wasn’t distressed, that wasn’t what she was feeling. She was sensing Drogon being upset because something was upsetting his brother. _I can’t sense Rheagal anymore_ , she realized with a start. 

“What aren’t you telling me?” she demanded. “Something happened, something that is making you afraid. Talk to me. Please.”

She watched him close his eyes, watched his lip tremble. “Bran,” he finally whispered after a long stretch of silence. “He saw something. A vision.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But… If Sansa told there would be a ripple. There would be fire, and children burned. He said that you would ‘rise again.’ He said ‘dragons will reign over a world of ash with hate in their hearts for a thousand years’, burning everybody, killing everybody. Even me.”

Daenerys took a stop back, eyes wide and her jaw dropped to her floor. “Jon… I would never-.”

“I know,” he whispered, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her towards him. “Dany, I know, but that is what Bran says he saw. He said he saw me taking our son and then you burned me to take him back.”

She laid her hand over her stomach protectively, as though Jon might reach out and snatch the life growing inside her right there.

“Why did you take my son from me?” she demanded, needing to remind herself that she could not be angry at him for things he hadn’t done yet.

“He didn’t say. He looked terrified, Daenerys. I’ve never seen him so afraid, even before he became whatever he is now. I don’t know what exactly he saw but he-... Whatever it was…”

Daenerys swallowed hard. “He said something to me as well. About the baby, that I would be faced with a choice that would determine our sons future. He would be a grand king or a conqueror who washes everything in fire.” 

Jon’s face fell. It was full of shock and horror. Daenerys’ chin wobbled at the sight, hating that she could bring this . “I don’t want my son to be his grandfather,” she whispered. “ _I_ don’t want to be my father.”

“You won’t be,” he said as firm as he could, but his voice shook on his last word. “He won’t be, Daenerys.”

“What if he is? You’re already afraid-.”

“I’m not.” To prove his words he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in close.

“You are,” she muttered. “And what’s worse is I don’t blame you.”

“I’m not afraid of you. And I could **never** be afraid of our son. Not now, not ever. I don’t… I don’t know anything about visions and prophecies and magic.” A small smile crossed his lips for a moment. “I don’t know a lot about anything, honestly. But I know that you won’t hurt anyone without reason. I know you aren’t your father, just like my son and I are not our grandfather. I know you won’t hurt me and I won’t ever hurt you.” He rested a hand on her stomach and gently stroked her belly with his thumb. Daenerys laid her hand overtop his “And I know our son will grow up to be a _great_ king; a brave strong dragon, like his mother.”

His words made her smile. Jon relaxed at the sight and tipped her head up so he could press his lips to her. She melted into the kiss, and snaked her arms around his neck as his hands wrapped her waist and pulled her in close. 

“I love you,” he breathed as he leaned his forehead against hers. “So much. And I love our son…”

“I love you too.”

They held one another for the longest time, simply swaying each other in the other’s arms. “I’m going to go with you,” he said after a while. “I’m going to go with you, to Tarth. We shouldn’t be separated.”

Daenerys shook her head. “Who will lead the Northern forces? They won’t follow anyone but you.”

“I just don’t think it’s safe to be apart.”

“I don’t know, Jon. We don’t have enough men anyway, we can’t risk anymore surprises or people turning back around the moment we leave. Plus Sansa’s right, the Northmen have been fighting wars for a long time, and many of them feel this isn’t even their war. It’ll be too risky to leave them to their own devices.” 

Jon worried at his lip for a moment. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” she said at once.

“Then let me handle the Northmen.” He kissed her once more. “Come on. We need to get to the hearing.”

“About that…” She took a deep breath. “Jon, whatever I decide-.”

“I told you, I will support you. I told Sansa I would as well.”

“It’s one thing to say it before it happens…”

“Do you take me as a man of my word?”

“Yes.”

“Then take me at this. I _will_ support you, Dany.” To seal his promise he kissed her again, burying his hands in her hair. He took hold of her hand and they walked out, united, together, a force that stood by each other that nothing could tear apart. 

For once the seat beside Jon was empty. Daenerys took her place beside him, the gallery mostly waiting until Daenerys took her seat before they took theirs. Arya was nowhere to be found. Jon closed his eyes and steeled himself, and took a deep breath before he nodded to a guard who opened the doors.

_Well she certainly knows how to dress the part…_

Sansa walked in with her head held high, a proud strong walk with a stunning pure white gown with a long fur train that fanned out a good stretch behind her and matched the color of the gray snarling wolf on her bodice. Her hair was plaited in two long braids draped over her shoulders, the way Daenerys had seen many of the Northern women wearing it. Sansa wanted to remind the Lords she was a Stark, and she was a Northmen through and through, and to remember that.

Brienne walked in a little ways behind her, armed and armored with a hand resting on the hilt of her sword, not there to defend this time but only to protect, to make the red head feel safe even if there was nothing she could really do for her if either chose a sentence that would require force or blood. Unlike Jaime not a one of them spat at her much less cursed her out loud, but there were some dark looks and one or two mutters. 

She stood in front of the high table, expression cool and confident and proud. Daenerys would kill to learn how to hide her emotions so well, to appear to your enemies that they did not intimidate you in the absolute slightest, to mask your fear or anger or whatever else she was feeling. But then she thought about what it must have cost, and she quickly changed her mind.

Jon and Sansa locked eyes for a moment before he spoke. “Lady Sansa of House Stark, you stand accused of forbidding a healer's assistance on the Northern armies, and the Knights of the Vale. You told the healers who were a part of Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen’s ensemble not to assist the wounded Westerosi. In doing so, at least a hundred deaths have been attributed to a lack of care once they were carried inside. Some may have died regardless if they received treatment in a timely manner, others might not have, and with the long queue it was possible they might not have been seen even if your command was not given, but those are the numbers that were brought before me. Do you deny it?”

“No, My Lord,” she said, shocking Daenerys with how steady and strong m her voice, least the mask of it, was. “But if I may have a chance to explain my decisions to you and the men gathered here?”

“You may.”

Sansa took a slow breath, in and out, before she spoke. “I distrusted the healers Queen Daenerys brought with her. I believed them either to be not up to the standard that Maesters were up to, and that they might’ve been told by the Queen to purposely kill or further injure our wounded men.” Another slow breath. “I was wrong. The healers were as well educated as the Maesters in regards to healing practices, and there was no plan by the Queen to inflict injury on the Northmen. One of her healers, Havi, a eunuch traveling with the Dothraki, actually spoke up against his Queen in order to save my sworn sword Brienne of Tarth when Daenerys ordered them follow my first command when I tried to rescind it.” The tall woman bowed her head. A look of something Daenerys couldn’t quite name painted the plain homely face. “I was just trying to protect our people. I didn’t want them to fall victim in a game I thought the Queen was playing, or even if she wasn’t plotting to weaken the North I did not trust the judgement of allowing uneducated eunuchs to treat our men. I let ill-judgement, and mistrust blind me, and the men laid the price. But I swear to the Old Gods and the New, that I was just trying to protect the North and it’s people.”

Daenerys looked out over the great hall. A few of the faces had softened, and one or two of the men were nodding and muttering in agreement with her decisions. The North mistrusted outsiders, Jon told her, which is exactly what Sansa had done. Could they really fault their lady for mistrusting a ‘foreign’ Queen with a foreign army, even if their lives were the ones that ended up paying?

But there were some that remained angry and hateful. One young man in particular stood in the back of the room was looking at Sansa with such a fire in her eye it was a miracle she did not burst into flames.

Jon’s face was unreadable. “A hundred Northmen lay dead on your orders. Because you could not trust the Queen, they and their families suffered.” He took a deep breath. “You caused harm… but you did so without malice. Therefore, in lieu of a punishment,” there was a loud murder from the crowd. “I am ordering you pledge the Valesmen, who fight on your orders, to the war for the Seven Kingdoms, and you will convince your mothers brother Edmure of House Tully, to give you the armies of the Riverlands. They will take the center, and the Northmen, for once will be in the rear, to compensate for their losses due to your actions.”

Sansas eyes went wide, and for the first time her mask cracked. “This isn’t their war! I never pledged-!”

“It is their war,” Jon interrupted, his voice sharp. “They are a part of the seven kingdoms, they will fight for the rightful Queen of the seven kingdoms. The knights of the vale are yours to command. Even in the words of the Arryn bannerman you've usurped them from Robin Arryn, but even still they follow you proudly. The Riverland armies are headed up by your kin. They did not help us take back Winterfell, nor did they help us in the army of the dead. You will command your uncle to let them fight now.”

Sansa pursed her lips, glowing slightly at Jon. “I accept this punishment. I will pledge the Knights of the Vale to the Queens cause, and do my best to convince my uncle to join us.”

Jon looked out over the gallery and saw mostly accepting and content agreeable faces. He turned back to Sansa and gave a curt nod before he turned to Daenerys who began speaking. Sansa was no longer looking dignified and resilient, but cross and full of fire.

“Lady Sansa,” the Queen began, forcing his voice as even as Jon’s was. “You stand accused of sabotaging the Dothraki ranks. You told the blacksmiths not to make their weapon of choice, weapons they needed to fight in the Long Night against the dead. Six thousand fought with straight edged swords, a weapon they are not at all accustomed to and many have never seen or worked with before, and nine thousand fought with regular steel arakhs.”

“Westeros Knights fight on horseback with straight edged swords all the time,” she offered. “ If the Dothraki were unsure they could handle the weapons millions of Westerosi knights and soldiers do, perhaps they should have gone to the first keep rather than to the battlefield. Do not forget either the steel arakhs were lit on fire before the start of the battle. If anything they had the superior weapon; a familiar weapon AND the advantage of fire.”

“You had no way of knowing the Red Priests would show up!” Her temper and voice was rising. “You were willing to send nine thousand men to their deaths with what amounted to tourney weapons, and another six thousand with weapons they’ve never even seen before! If you were anyone else but the Lady of Winterfell I would have executed you the moment I found out!” 

Mutterings erupted throughout the Great Hall. Her icy blue eyes went wide for a moment and she turned to Jon who looked as hard faced as he ever had, keeping his promise to the Queen. When she realized she was on her own she took a deep breath. “I thought you were setting us up to fail. I thought by using the barrels as trebuchet fodder. I was worried that you ordered them to be used in the catapults to take away dragon glass that could be used as individual weapons. I was trying to even the playing field. Your Grace I am sorry. Truly.”

Her words were wind. “You were distrustful when I gave you no reason to be, and the Dothraki suffered for it. I believe SOME of your motivation was based on your desire to protect them, but the majority of your decision was based solely to hurt your Queen. My screamers, who I revere their loyalty as much as you revere the northmen, were injured and killed on what might have been your orders. You have shown you cannot be trusted. More than that, deeper than that, your family has a history in the last forty years to prove they cannot be trusted to remain loyal to the crown, no matter if the stag, lion or dragon sits on the throne. You hold too much power for someone so mistrustful.” Jon looked dead ahead, his face revealing nothing. 

_He said he would support me. He promised to stand behind me._

Daenerys took a long deep breath. “Therefore; House Stark is no longer the ruling house of the North.” 

The room erupted into chaos. Men were on their feet shouting and yelling, while others turned to their neighbors with shocked expressions, wondering aloud if Daenerys could do that. Jon whipped towards her, eyes wide, saying nothing to quiet the crowd. 

Sansa’s eyes went wide and her jaw dropped to her breast. It took a moment for her voice to return, and she stammered out, “you-... you can’t! You can’t do that!”

“I can,” Daenerys said firmly. “And I did. You will still have your lands. You will still have Winterfell, but you have not shown me that you are worthy of the title Lady of the North, nor is your House worthy of the honor of being Warden of the North, the title my ancestor Aegon gifted to Torren Stark when the last King of the North kneeled before the Conqueror to save his people, trusting him to keep his word that he would not set his dragons on the Northmen.”

“You cannot give the North to a southerner!” Tears rushed to her eyes. “You can’t!”

“I have no intention of taking the North away from those in the North.” Daenerys nodded towards the shocked and stunned Jorah who was standing on the sidelines. “House Mormont has shown loyalty beyond measure to the North. It’s last surviving member has shown loyalty beyond measure to your Queen. Ser Jorah will be the best of both worlds. The Mormonts will be the Wardens of the North and Bear Island will be the new seat of power in the north.”

“No… NO!” 

Jon swallowed hard, urging his voice steady. “Sansa, calm down.”

“I will not allow her to take away the North from the Starks and give it to a slaver and a traitor! She is not our Queen, she has no right! You cannot agree to this! You cannot agree this is right!”

He licked his lips, taking a deep breath. “I told you in the Godswood I would support her decision just as I would have supported yours if she did the same. I stand behind Queen Daenerys,” he said, rising his voice above the rabble. “I stand behind this decision.”

“Then you are a coward,” Sansa spat before she turned back to Daenerys. “I will not accept this punishment. I refuse.”

”My Lady, please,” Brienne urged her quietly, putting a hand on her shoulder that Sansa quickly threw off.

“If you refuse,” Daenerys warned. “I will have no choice but to execute you for disobeying a direct order.”

“No!”

“Sansa!” Jon snapped. “Accept this and be grateful she’s allowing you to keep Winterfell and your head!”

“I will not accept it! Not now, not ever, nor do I accept this murmurs farce of a hearing.” Sansa narrowed her eyes at the silver haired Queen who glared right back. “I demand a trial by combat.”


	23. Chapter 23

Brienne closed her eyes as the room erupted into more chaos. People were yelling about the decision made minutes previously, muttering and conversing about Sansa’s demand, but Brienne heard none of it. She would be expected to fight on Sansa’s behalf. She and Grey Worm or one of the Bloodriders would fight until either she or one of Daenerys’ men laid dead.

Immediately her thoughts began to race. Brienne tried to remember everything she knew about the Unsullied and the Dothraki what she had seen in the training yards... Greyworm was short, only an inch or so taller than Jon but a lack of a long reach could be compensated with the spear. He had muscles as all soldiers were apt to have, but he did not possess otherworldly strength like the Hound and more importantly he was not strong as her, nor did he wear metal armor, only boiled leather and a helm. Less defenses but less bulk and that meant he would be able to move faster. The Dothraki were as strong and tall as her, and they used a curved weapon she had never even seen before much less trained against. But they fought with no armor, not even boiled leather like the Unsullied, and were not used to fighting when they stepped down off their horse. 

Brienne was tall, and strong, with the best armor money could buy and a priceless sword to go along with it. But she was not conceited enough to not realize each advantage was a disadvantage as well. She was big, and that meant she would be slower. She had armor, and it would weigh her down. Oathkeeper was deadlier than any weapon any ber champion wielded, and her left shoulder was still injured. Plus the weight of it, which weaker people needed two hands to lift, would make her strokes come slower. 

Brienne opened her eyes and she licked her dry lips. She would need to say it, she realized, make her intentions known. She kept her voice as firm as her nerves would allow it. “I will be Lady Sansa’s champion.”

“No!” A voice yelled. “No no no! **A** **_bsolutely_ ** not!”

Jaime pushed through the crowd, eyes hard and hand clenched. “You can’t do this.” She wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Daenerys, Sansa or herself. 

“I cannot forbid someone's pick of a champion,” Daenerys told a seething Jaime. “Nor can I deny someone the right to a trial by combat.”

“I don’t care whose choice it is, and I don’t care what the rules say! She’s not fighting in a trial by combat!”

“It’s fine, Ser Jaime,” Brienne muttered. 

“It’s not fine, Wench! Name me as your champion,” he ordered Sansa. Without waiting for a response be whipped towards Daenerys. “I will be the Lady Sansa’s champion.”

Brienne’s heart fluttered madly in her chest. She never, not in her wildest dreams, even when they were filled with Renly... But here he was. Offering to fight for a woman he could hardly stand, all so she wouldn’t have to risk his life. Brienne couldn’t let that happen, she couldn’t lose him just so she might be able to stay alive.

“You can’t fight!” Sansa cried, drawing Brienne from her thoughts. “You’ve only got one hand!”

“He won’t be,” Brienne said firmly. “It’s already been decided. I will fight the Queen's champion for Lady Sansa.”

Daenerys rose from her seat, Jon following and looking absolutely melancholy. “The trial will commence in one hour,” the Queen announced. “Prepare yourself, Lady Brienne.”

“Brienne,” Jaime said; pleading, desperate, as the Queen and her advisers followed her from the Hall. She turned to him, and the look in his eyes filled her heart with a warmth that women like her were never afforded. “Don’t do this,” he begged softly, taking her hand in his. “Please. Sansa has a thousand other men at her beck and call, she has her sister, she has the Greyjoy boy.”

“None of them swore an oath to shield her back and give their lives for her.”

“Brienne, _please._ ”

She opened her mouth to argue but when she saw her father limp his way through the crowd she quickly dropped his hand and took a step away. To a stranger Selwyn’s face was one of solid stone, hardened out of their island's marble. But Brienne could read him well, and she saw the fear alive and well in his eyes. 

“Ser Jaime, Lady Sansa… might I have a moment alone with my daughter?”

Sansa nodded and hurried off, looking far less the strong and sure winter beauty she was when she walked into the hall and more like the scared small girl she was under all the porcelain masks. Jaime held back however, not leaving until Brienne promised she would speak to him later.

He looked as though the physical act of leaving was crushing him. Jaime took a half step forward but then glanced at Selwyn and thought better of it.

“My Lady, My Lord,” he said with a bow the two of them before he turned and walked away. Brienne wanted to follow but instead she stayed by her fathers side. Neither one of them spoke as they made their way through the stone halls and corridor of Winterfell until they reached the Evenstars chambers. Brienne followed him in, freezing at the Dothraki girl who had been sitting in his lap the night before and was now sitting in the chair and combing her long black hair in front of the looking glass.

“Riqathi,” Selwyn greeted her sternly, raising a brow. The Dothraki girl looked between the two blondes for a moment before she stood and left, shutting the door behind her. “Apologies,” he said when they were finally alone. “She was supposed to have been gone.”

“It’s fine,” Brienne muttered, her cheeks burning a bright crimson. It hadn’t been the first time she saw one of her fathers many _… Ladies…_ either going in or coming out of his chambers or sitting at the table to break their fast the next morning over the years growing up but without fail it always made her go red when they came face to face.

Selwyn gnawed at his lip as he looked down at her. One of the few in Westeros who could. “I’ll fight in your stead if you wish” 

“Father, your leg-.”

“I don’t care.”

She shook her head. “It’ll be fine. _I’ll_ be fine. The Unsullied fight better in a group, and off horses Dothraki are just a brush better than the average soldier.”

“The Dothraki can choose to fight on horseback, Brienne.”

She swallowed hard. She was a competent fighter on horseback and an excellent rider but her skills did not come close to touching the Dothraki on horseback. 

“I took down a man while astride a horse before,” she muttered, feeling much less confident than moments before. Perhaps they wouldn’t realize they could choose to fight on the back of a horse... 

“Not a Dothraki, and if she chooses Grey Worm he is the commander of the Unsullied, the man can _fight_ , Brienne, in a group or out of it.”

“And I am a Knight,” she countered with a swell of pride for her new title. “With a valyrian steel sword.”

He still didn’t look convinced. For the first time since Sansa spoke she began to feel a nervous twisting in her stomach. If her own father didn’t have faith in her... Selwyn must have realized what his words were doing so he forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes to his lips. 

“I believe you’ll win, Brienne. I have faith in you. You’ll need a helm though,” he said, as though musing over any other soldier missing their equipment. “And a neck guard, you have a nice long unprotected neck that any warrior worth their salt would notice. You can borrow mine.”

“Thank you.”

Selwyn dug through the trunk he brought from Tarth and pulled out a long triangular oak shield with the heldry of their House on it. “If that one doesn’t feel right I’m sure the Winterfell armory has another.”

Brienne slipped her arm through the leather straps and lifted the shield, drawing Oathkeeper and testing the weight of them both. “It’s good. I like the balance.”

“Good.” He took a deep breath. “You know you don’t have to do this, Brienne.”

“I swore a vow, to protect Lady Sansa and shield her from all harm. Would you have me break it just because it puts me in danger?”

“I wouldn’t have you swear a vow in service to a woman who does not respect our Queen in the first place.”

“Lady Sansa has been through a lot,” Brienne argued with stubborn loyalty. 

“So have you. So have we all, that does not give one permission to act so disrespectful to the Queen or to deny her claim. I do not begrudge the North declaring independence,” he clarified. “After all the trouble the south has given them in the past half decade I cannot fault them for wanting to break away. But Jon Snow bent the knee, the North for her armies. Daenerys kept her promise, it’s wrong of Sansa to try to deny the Queen her wares.”

“Our House declared for Renly,” Brienne reminded him. “He was rebelling against the crown and we offered him support. How is that different from what Sansa wants? Why was his cause more noble? How is the way Renly spoke of Joffrey, the announced king any different than how Sansa speaks of Daenerys?”

A glint of amusement fluttered in his eye. “It’s different because my only daughter begged me to offer assistance to Renly. Otherwise I would have kept Tarth out of that war entirely.”

Brienne remembered the day the raven came from Renly announcing he was calling the Stormland Banners and pleading with the lords to follow him rather than Stannis. Selwyn didn’t want to get involved at all but Brienne begged and pleaded to lend their House to his cause, to let her fight for him. Renly would make a wonderful king, the _best_ king, she told Selwyn, far better than Joffrey or Stannis. Selwyn decided to go against Robert in his rebellion but now was his chance to prove to the Baratheons that those from the sapphire isle were still loyal Stormlanders. 

She imagined the look on his handsome face when she rode in with 4,000 fighting men behind her, proudly declaring that House Tarth was his. He would smile and call her ‘My Lady’, a title very few men believed she was afforded, and when she came down from her horse he may have even hugged her again like he did the night he comforted her. Then afterwards he would look her in her big blue eyes, the only part of her that was truly beautiful, and realize it didn’t matter what she looked like. He had her undying loyalty, unending love and unshakeable faith in him. What else would one need in a wife, Renly would tell himself, and that would be the start of every dream of hers coming true since the day he danced with her at Evenfall.

But when she arrived with Tarth’s men he smiled, as he always did when he saw Brienne, but on his arm was an absolutely gorgeous woman with long brown curls and a dress that seemed to do more to show off her breasts than hide them. 

“Lady Brienne,” he had said after Brienne climbed down off her horse, freakishly big, ugly, lumbering and having slept in a tent on the road for the past week. A total contradiction to the stunning beauty beside him. “This is my betrothed, Lady Margaery of House Tyrell.”

The words were a dagger in her heart, and she had to gnaw the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood to keep from crying.

“It is wonderful to make your acquaintance, Lady Brienne,” Margaery said with a smile that Brienne had seen from many other girls. Girls who would be friendly to your face but laugh behind your back, or who would giggle behind their hands but when pressed for the reasons why would swear they weren’t talking about you.

“I would have preferred to keep our men safe then fight for _any_ of the false kings,” Selwyn said, drawing Brienne from her memories and causing her ire at the phrase.

 _Renly was the one true king_ she thought fiercely loyal even after all this time, but now was not the time to argue. 

“House Tarth kneels to the dragons,” her father continued. “Aerys was a _HORRIBLE_ king, his advisers and council should have stripped him of his power and command long before the rebellion happened.”

“But you fought for the mad king anyway.”

“I fought for the Targaryen family,” Selwyn clarified. “Our kinsmen. I would have seen Aerys off the throne and Rheagar in his place until Robert killed the prince at the Trident. Daenerys is the last Targaryen. That’s why House Tarth fights for her. That’s why you will fight for her and the crown after I’m gone,” he said firmly. “And not the North who might rise against her.”

Brienne looked at him with hurt in her big blue eyes. “You think I would get our men involved in a war that has nothing to do with us? I didn't even ask you to help with the Starks taking back Winterfell because it was not their fight. The only reason I asked now is because all of Westeros was in trouble if the dead prevailed.”

“I think if Lady Sansa asked you to send troops to help her in a war for Northern Independence you would consider it a LOT stronger than I feel comfortable with.” “The point at present still stands,” she said, ignoring the accusation. “House Tarth eventually knelt to Robert and years later we fought for the rebels rather than the crown.”

“I knelt because it was either bend the knee or give up my titles and the last dragons were babes across the narrow sea. And I did not kneel to Joffrey because he was an illegitimate king, an incestrial bastard sired by the dishonorable kingslayer.”

“Ser Jaime isn't dishonorable,” she muttered, blush painting her cheeks a Lannister crimson. “He’s a good man.”

“He killed his king, he violated his sister-.”

“And now he’s here after protecting the living, the same as you.”

Selwyn raised a brow and her blush grew deeper. 

“You’re quite defensive of the Kingslayer. And he is quite protective over you as well…”

Brienne lowered her eyes and shrugged, wrapping her arms around herself, offering a soft, “we’ve been through a lot together.”

He eyed the golden lion on the pommel of her sword. “...I see…” Selwyn walked over and grabbed his helm and unbuckled his neck guard from his chest plate, handing them over with her thanks. The firelight made the tears welling in his eyes shine and she had to look away. “You’ll be fine.” Brienne wasn’t sure if he was convincing her or himself. He tried to smile but it just came off as a sad grimace. “At least I’m only sending my daughter off to fight one man this time rather than in a war.” Selwyn laid a rough calloused hand on her cheek. “You know you make me very happy.”

Brienne's eyes filled with tears and she wrapped her arms around him and he stroked her pale blonde hair, making her feel like she was a little girl again and she came to him weeping after some of the boys in the yard were cruel to her. 

“You’ll be fine,” he promised, kissing the top of her head, the only man she ever knew tall enough to do so. “I have faith, Brienne. Whoever the queen chooses, I know you can win.”

“Thank you,” she muttered against his chest before she pulled away. “I’m sorry, I promised Lady Sansa and Ser Jaime I would-.”

“No, no of course.” 

With one final squeeze of her hand Brienne forced herself to leave, clutching the pink and blue helm tight in her hands. She made her way to her chambers where she set down her armor and newly acquired shield and took a seat on the bed, swallowing hard. Brienne could do this. She won in single combat against the Hound, she killed a White Walker, she beat THE Jaime Lannister, even if he was chained and out of practice for a year. Brienne could handle Grey Worm or a Dothraki… She could, it would be fine. She would win her ladies lands titles back, she would go to Jaime, and things would be fine. It would all be fine.

After a while she stood and made her way to Sansa’s chambers. For as strong as she was, she couldn’t find the strength to face Jaime just yet.

Sansa was pacing back and forth, back and forth when Brienne arrived. The dramatic gown and trailing cloak long gone and in its place a rather plain grey dress. 

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Sansa said, wringing her hands together. 

“I understand, My Lady,” Brienne said, and she did, but still… “I just… usually the severity of a trial by combat is only when a life is at stake… Especially if you need a champion.”

“She took away the North!” the redhead cried. “The Starks have held the North for over eight thousands years and she wipes out the history away with a few words and gives it to a slaver and a coward!”

The Tarth’s have held Tarth for nearly six thousand years but even still Brienne would have given up the sapphire isle rather than make Sansa fight. She would have given it up in a heartbeat. 

Sansa must have seen the doubt in her sworn Shields eyes because she grabbed hold of her hands and held them fast. “You cannot abandon me now,” she said, voice trembling. “You are the only person who never wanted anything from me, who never used me for anything .”

“Of course I won’t abandon you, My Lady. It’s just… I’m terrified of losing,” she admitted. “For both our sakes.”

“Don’t be! I wouldn’t have asked for this if I knew you wouldn’t have won! Okay, you- you are a stronger fighter than any of them! You have a Valyrian steel sword, you have the best armor money can buy, you’re a _knight_! And when this is all over and I’m the Lady of the North again...” Sansa beamed at the taller frowning woman. “I’m giving you Last Hearth.”

Brienne furrowed her brow. “Pardon, My Lady?”

“Last Hearth! The keep, where the Umbers were once Lords.”

Her mouth opened, then closed, and opened and closed again. “I… My Lady, I’m flattered but I cannot accept.”

Sansa’s face fell. “Why not? Daenerys only made your father Lord of the Stormlands to take you away from me. This is me making sure you stay in the North with me.”

“But I don’t want to stay in the North,” Brienne said. chiding herself for the childishness of her protests. “Even before he was given the whole of the Stormlands, I’m my fathers only heir. I was going to go back to Tarth eventually.”

“But now you’re sworn to Daenerys! This way you can obey me without her arguing, the Liege Lord comes before the crown. Not only that but I’ll find you a proper Northern husband, one loyal to the Starks.”

“No,” Brienne said in a harsh, firm voice, allowing no room for argument on that particular front.

Every man from the North she ever met apart from Jon was big and bearded and bulky and the Northern men were unsophisticated, obnoxiously loud and rudely judgmental in regards to her Lannister sword and even her religion. Brienne didn’t want a ‘proper Northern husband’, she wanted what she had dreamed about even before she met Renly; a perfect genteel Southerner.

Like Jaime. 

“Brienne,” Sansa began but Brienne cut her off quickly.

“My Lady, I would die for you. You know that. I’m proving it to you in less than an hour. But I will **not** marry someone just because of their loyalty to your House, nor do I have any desire to move even further north just so you can order me to sacrifice my men if you ever wanted to rebel. You’re… you’re trying to take me away from my home, away from my duty as the next Evenstar.” A beat and then, “you’re trying to take me away from Jaime,” Brienne added softly, bowing her head as the blush crept up her cheeks.

Sansa raised her brow at the tall woman. “Brienne, you are not a stupid woman. You’re fairly intelligent, so you cannot tell me you possibly believe that Ser Jaime is actually in l-.”

“Maybe he is,” she said quickly, not wanting to hear the rest of the question that had been gnawing at her since the other night that she forced to push down spoken aloud. “Maybe not. But I don’t want Last Hearth, I don’t want to marry a Northerner, and I _really_ don’t want to be apart of any games between you and Daenerys. I’m not a chess piece, My Lady, and I would hope you had enough respect for me not to treat me like one.”

Sansa flushed with embarrassment, but that soon turned to rage. “I was trying to be kind to you,” she snapped. “I wanted to reward you for all your loyalty by giving you a keep and a husband, but if you’d rather go back to your pitiful little island with the hopes of marrying the man who’s merely using you to get to me than go!”

“My Lady, please don’t be angry,” the blonde woman begged. “If this is our last conversation-.”

“It probably will be if you defend me as well as you defended my mother and Renly!”

Brienne took a bold step forward, her hands trembling as they curled tight into fists and her eyes burning with the same fire she always felt when someone used Renly’s death to insult her, and Sansa knew she had gone too far. The redhead eyes got wide and she scampered back away from the enraged woman.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. Rather she meant it or just wanted to subdue her anger she wasn’t sure. “Brienne I’m sorry, I never should have said that. Forgive me, please…”

Brienne knew if she stayed much longer there was a decent chance the Lady of Winterfell would end up being cuffed by her sworn shield. She turned and started to leave, her hand freezing on the doorknob when Sansa called out to her. “You’re… you’re still going to fight for me, right?” 

For one small selfish angry moment she wanted to tell her no, but a second later she was berating herself for even thinking that. She was still sworn to her, she still swore a vow to protect her, look after her, defend her… Brienne took a deep breath before she turned back to the girl, who looked young and small and scared.

“Of course I will, My Lady. I told you before, I won’t abandon you.” Sansa smiled and Brienne bowed her head before she left. 

The wall to Jaime’s chambers was far too short and far too long, both of them at once. Her heart pounded hard in her chest as she knocked on the door, her knuckles barely rapping on them before he was swinging the door wide open.

“Sansa doesn’t have the right to call a trial by combat,” he said quickly when Brienne shut the door behind them. “She doesn’t, Tommen outlawed it!”

“Your sister reinstated the practice,” she reminded him gently and Jaime gnawed at his lip.

“Sansa is a follower of the Old Gods, trial by combat is a Southern thing, there has to be some law against it in the North!”

“Jaime-.”

“She believes the North is independent right? So that makes her a princess! A member of the royal family HAS to be defended by a Kingsguard, and you are not a member so you can’t defend her!”

“Jaime, stop,” Brienne begged, and he fell silent with great effort. She took hold of his flesh hand and the scarred stump. “I don’t want to spend what could be my last minutes with you trying to get me out of a choice I made.”

“I don’t want this to be my last few minutes with you though,” he whispered, choking back tears. “We just started... Brienne, I never even, _we_ never even got to-...”

“I know.” Her eyes grew wet and she quickly blinked them away. “I know, but I’m a good fighter. I could win this, Jaime. The Unsullied, the Dothraki, they don’t fight with armor and both of them have disadvantages one on one on the ground. You gave me armor, you gave me a priceless sword, my father gave me a shield. You made me a knight.” Brienne combed through his hair and let her fingers lightly dance at the nape of his neck, remembering how much calm that seemed to bring him the other night. He closed his eyes at the gentle touch. “I can win this. I just need you to have faith that I can.”

“Of course I have faith.” Jaime opened his eyes to gaze into hers. A smile that held no humor played on his lips. “How could I ever doubt my wench?”

She chuckled softly and Jaime wrapped her arms around her waist. “I have a name, you know.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But wench suits you.”

Jaime pressed his lips to hers, kissing her until she was breathless, kissing her until she moaned. When they were sober their hands worked much quicker, and soon she was on his bed, bare and naked before him. 

“I don’t know if we have time,” she moaned as he kissed down her neck. “Jaime…”

“Dragons and wolves be damned, I will not let you go to your possible death without tasting you at least once,” he told her as he pressed his lips to her collar bone, and her core flooded with fire. 

He took her meager breasts into his mouth and Brienne choked back a scream as he kissed and suckled at the curves he once endlessly insulted. Jaime soon abandoned her breasts though and she shuddered as he left a trail of kisses down her stomach before he got to his knees. He pulled her as well as a one handed man could you the edge of the bed until her long legs were dangling off the edge. He hoisted them over his shoulders and bent his head between her legs.

“Don’t look away,” Jaime ordered her as he watched her close her eyes and fall back against her pillows.

She did as he was told and Brienne cried out to the gods as he nipped at her inner thigh with his teeth, and every kiss was a burning match inflaming her skin wherever he touched. His fingers parted the pale pink lips covered in soft curly blonde down and a moment later he was dragging his tongue the length of her slit.

Brienne whimpered and writhed as he pushed back the hood and began to lick at her clit. When he wrapped his lips around the swollen bud and began to suck she screamed and arched her whole self off the bed, crying out his name. Jaime used his forearm to push her back down on the bed.

“Jaime!” she cried out, choking back another scream. He was devouring her, tasting her, worshipping what was between her legs, a predatory look on his face as he ate away. The hot wet smacks his mouth made as he feasted was the most sensual sounds she ever heard, and when her lion began to purr against her flesh, the vibrations made her scream again.

He pushed his tongue inside her opening, curling it and twisting it before he replaced his tongue with his fingers. He moved them in and out, curling and twisting as his tongue danced across her flesh, and he tasted and sucked and licked. When he flicked the tip of his tongue against her clit as fast and as frenzied as a man had ever moved, and sucked at it as if he was a starving, she screamed his name to the heavens, and stars danced in her eyes.

When Brienne finally came back down to earth he was climbing up beside her and pressed his lips to her, letting her taste herself. She moaned as he danced his tongue across her and she sank deep into the kiss, and when they opened their eyes to each other and she saw the love and adoration dancing in them he knew there wasn't a word of truth in Sansa’s words.

Jaime loved Brienne. He was with her because he wanted to be with her, the red headed wolf was the last thing on his mind right now. He laced his fingers with hers and brought her hand to his lips. 

“I love you,” she whispered, and he smiled as if she gave him all the gold in Casterly Rock.

“I love you too.” 

They both laid there for a while, neither one speaking a word and instead just gazing into one another’s eyes, happy just to be in each others company until wordlessly Brienne got up from the bed and dressed herself, Jaime biting back the protests she told him she didn’t want to hear.

“I need to get ready,” she said softly once she was dressed. Jaime didn’t answer. He just got up from the bed and took hold of her hand again, holding it tight as though he could keep her there by sheer force alone.

“I’ll be down there cheering for you,” he promised. “I swear it.”

He laid his hand on her cheek and Brienne closed her eyes and rested her hand overtop his, enjoying the feel of his touch one final moment before she turned and left before her tears could spill.

When she got back to her chambers she sniffed and wiped away her tears, leaning back against her door. This decision would have seemed like such a better idea a mere two days ago but now all she wanted to do was go back to Jaime and hide until this madness was done and deal with the consequences later. But she couldn’t, because she swore a vow to Sansa and to back out now after she made her promise would be dishonorable. 

She dressed herself in her loosest most comfortable clothes, her sturdiest boots and then donned her armor including the neck guard. After she was dressed Brienne kneeled at the side of her bed, folded her hands and bowed her head.

“Give me strength,” she asked the Warrior. “I know Sansa is guilty of what she has been accused of, but she just wants her lands and titles back,” she told the Father. “Let Oathkeeper’s aim be true, and let my shield remain strong,” she begged the Smith. Brienne started to ask the Maiden to watch over her when she remembered she no longer belonged to her, so she asked the Mother to look after her instead as a woman, and she asked the Crone to give her the wisdom she would need to defeat her enemy. And she asked the Stranger to let either her or her opponent into the Kingdom of the Seven when this was all over.

When her prayers were said she slipped a dagger up her sleeve, a dirty trick but if Daenerys’ champion played dirty first Brienne would have no problem reciprocating, slipped the helm over her face and rose the viser for now, and slid her arm though the straps. 

When all was said and done Brienne looked at herself in the mirror, at the deep cobalt armor and the rose painted helm and the pink and blue shield and her lion hilted sword. 

Brienne looked like a warrior. Brienne looked like a knight.

 _I am going to win this_ , she told herself with fierce determination as she turned and walked out of her chambers and made her way down to the Great Hall. _I am a knight. The knights always win in the stories._

Maybe Daenerys would yield if Brienne got enough of a leg up and her champion was battered enough. She did not want to kill when she didn’t have to, even if it was Sansa.

She hoped it was a Dothraki that Daenerys chose to champion her. Not only because she felt one of them would be easier to fight but the Unsullied she met respected her, they respected her prowess with a sword, and Grey Worm himself had been courteous even though she was sworn to Sansa. The Dothraki were impressed by her strength but she was a woman before she was a warrior, an ugly woman at that. It didn’t matter that she could swing a sword with the best of them, the sin of being a woman they did not consider pretty was unforgivable. She even heard rumors of the horse lords sacking cities in Essos because the girls offered up as slaves were not to their standards, or murdering the girls offered up to them just for not being pretty enough.

So far none of the Dothraki had done anything though. They scoffed at the men they considered weak and leered at some of the women, but whatever orders Daenerys gave that forbade the most violent parts of their culture were followed. 

The Greathall was crowded when she arrived, and Daenerys and Jon sat at the high table while Sansa and her father stood off to the side, fear painting their features. Jaime was right in front of the gallery as promised and immediately she felt herself grow easier, more assured. She could do this, and afterwards she would go to the lion and weep on his shoulder for the life she had to take and the fight she just had to endure and he would comfort her. 

She looked around the room and saw Greyworm but he was in no different clothes than he was earlier in the day; no armor, no helm and no spear.

_Dothraki it is then…_

Daenerys surveyed Brienne for a moment before she rose from her seat. “The trial will take place on the grounds,” she announced.

Brienne swallowed hard. That l probably meant her Dothraki champion requested to fight on horseback. _That’s okay_ , she told herself with waning confidence. _I don’t need to win on horseback I just need to knock him off his mount and then you can finish him._

Brienne still had the baymare that Jaime gave her when she left King’s Landing. She kept a pretty pace and was sweet to look upon but the rider had no idea how the horse would fare against a Dothraki stallion.

She met Jaime’s eyes who looked rather confused, but he, and the rest of the audience followed the Queen to what Brienne thought would be the training hard but the keep kept going and left the grounds, the setting sun providing them with the last bit of light. She kept looking back at Jaime, his green eyes giving her the strength to keep walking.

Until a dragon's scream filled the air, and she saw a jet of fire shoot a hundred feet in the air. Brienne froze, her eyes going wide as she realized what was happening. Jaime realized it as well and even one handed, it took three Dothraki and an Unsullied to hold him back as he screamed his protests. Sansa wept and her father demanded to know what kind of jest this was. The Queen ignored them all.

“Lady Brienne is the champion of House Stark,” Daenerys said firmly, her voice barely heard over Jaime’s screams. “Dragons are the champion of House Targaryen.” 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mercy, thought Dany. They will have the dragon’s mercy.  
> “Skahaz, I have changed my mind. Question the man sharply.”  
> “I could. Or I could question the daughters sharply whilst the father looks on. That will wring some names from him.”  
> “Do as you think best, but bring me names.”  
> Daenerys II A Dance with Dragons
> 
> “They will not mind us keeping their gold safe, then. There is nothing to buy in the hills.”  
> “They are afraid for their children,” Reznak said.  
> Yes, Daenerys thought, and so am I. “We must keep them safe as well. I will have two children from each of them. From the other pyramids as well. A boy and a girl.”  
> “Hostages,” said Skahaz, happily.   
> “Pages and cupbearers. If the Great Masters make objection, explain to them that in Westeros it is a great honor for a child to be chosen to serve at court.” She left the rest unspoken. “Go and do as I’ve commanded. I have my dead to mourn.”  
> Daenerys II A Dance with Dragons
> 
> "Slay the Good Masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who wears a tokar or holds a whip, but harm no child UNDER TWELVE, and strike the chains off every slave you see."  
> Daenerys III A Storm of Swords
> 
> “Daenerys pushed her hair back. "Find these cowards for me. Find them, so that I might teach the Harpy's Sons what it means to WAKE THE DRAGON."  
> Daenerys I A Dance with Dragons 
> 
> So let’s talk about this last chapter and some of yalls reactions. Daenerys is not a sweet little innocent mercy and kindness to all UwU makes all the best decisions forever and ever and everything she does is good and she only does bad to ONLY indescribably super bad people that everyone agrees needs to be burned. She had a daughter tortured in front of her father because they MIGHT have been guilty, and gave her people permission to torture people who may or may not have been innocent. It’s canon she takes children away from parents as hostages, it’s canon that she TORTURES PEOPLE because she gets angry that people she cares about were hurt.   
> Literally everything I’ve done fits with canon. Daenerys is one of the most complex characters in modern fantasy. Yall acting like she’s some perfectly good makes no bad decisions, only harms super bad people and if she does make unpopular choices that makes her mad takes away from that. She is not perfect, she is flawed and sometimes makes choices based on her anger and when people she loves are hurt, she goes to extreme lengths to get them what she considers to be justice. How is that any different then what D&D wanted us to think? “Oh she didn’t flinch when Viserys was killed and choose to torture slavers (and yes, crucifixion is torture, even if it was well earned) that makes her mad!” Except here it’s “oh she showed Sansa fuck around and find out but because it’s with a character we care about, that makes her mad.” But I bet if it was Cersei y’all would be okay with it. If it was Sansa in physical danger yall would be cheering LOUD. But bc it’s someone we care about, ‘oh she’s mad!’ No. She’s in character. If y’all take that to mean she’s mad well….

“ **_I’LL KILL YOU!”_ **

Jaime fought against the guards iron grips, his voice louder than all the other voices raised in protests. “ **_YOU HORRID FUCKING BITCH, I’LL KILL YOU!”_ **

Daenerys was stone cold, unflinching, as she looked from a terrified Brienne to a weeping Sansa.

“Your Grace, you cannot do this!” Selwyn yelled, his big blue eyes filling with tears. “Please! I’ll fight for the Lady Sansa!”

“Lady Sansa has already chosen her champion just as I have chosen mine.”

Brienne’s homely face was a sick ghostly white but she held fast. Her grip on Oathkeeper was so tight Daenerys was amazed the hilt wasn’t cutting into her skin. She lowered her viser, raised her sword and took a half a step forward, freezing when the dragon screamed his warnings.

Jon stood faithful at the queens side, making sure his voice was not audible to anyone but her. “Don't do this,” he begged. “You told me you didn’t want to be your father. Name one of your Blood Riders or Grey Worm or me as your champion, just give Brienne a chance. She’s done nothing wrong, don’t condemn her to this.”

“I did not ask for your permission to name my champion nor do I require it.” 

She spoke sharply, but she hoped her eyes were shouting the truth.

“Dany-.” But the Queen turned away to look at Sansa.

She needed her to say the words. She needed her to beg, she could not give in without it.

Rheagal was screaming as well, but he helped neither the dragon or the slayer. He thrashed and painted the sky with billowing flames, and at one point he took a step towards Drogon but his brother hissed and snapped his teeth at him, a warning that this was his fight and to stay out of it. Rheagal was unhappy, and let him know as much with a snarl but the green dragon lowered his head in submission and the great black beast turned his hateful gaze back to Brienne.

“Please!” Sansa wept, crying out as Drogon sang his beautiful song again. “Your Grace, please!”

_ Not enough. _

“You asked for this,” Daenerys reminded her with not a hide or hair of forgiveness. “Trial by combat. You named your champion. I named mine. The fight started already, Lady Brienne,” she called out to the blonde. “I suggest you begin.”

Brienne was trembling so bad it was a miracle she could still stand. She took a timid step towards Drogon, and then another, raising her sword high in the air. The blue flames licking at half the steel bathed her in a soft cool light. 

It was like something out of a song. The Evenstars daughter looked every bit the hero in the stories, the ones where brave knights, armed with nothing but their courage and a magic sword, slayed the fearsome dragon. The ground trembled at the sound of Drogon’s thundering bellow. Other men would have fallen to their knees asking for a reprieve by now but Brienne stood fast, and took another step towards the dragon. Daenerys swallowed hard, but she did not allow her fear for the tall woman to win. She had to be strong. She had to be a queen. She had to be a dragon.

The Queen forced herself to watch Brienne as if she was nothing more but a vaguely interested party watching a murmurs show. The viser covered her face but she could tell from the way she moved her head just so that she was trying to find a weak spot and Drogon roared again, warning Brienne to keep back. 

Daenerys closed her eyes, and Drogon’s thoughts became her own. The metal woman’s scent had an air of familiarity to it, enough that he was willing to give more than enough warnings to stay back where as anyone else would have been incinerated by now. But she was still a stranger, and what was worse than that was the sickening stench of lion wrapped around her like a fog, the same lion that tried to kill him and his mother just a few short weeks ago. If this stranger took another step, he would not hesitate to burn her… 

_ Please Sansa,  _ she screamed without words as she opened her eyes again.  _ Don’t make me go through with this. Don't make me keep my word. _

The dragon opened his mouth, and Daenerys took a sharp breath as she saw the glowing red and orange light in its throat. Brienne saw it as well and threw herself out of the way just as a jet of fire passed by with mere inches to spare. She rolled in the snow and scrambled to her feet, still holding her flaming sword aloft, her breast heaving.

Even if she was devoured by the dragon in the end she had already done more than any man who looked straight in the eyes of Drogon before.

“ **STOP** !” Sansa begged. She started to run forward and Daenerys barked an order to her Dothraki to grab her knowing if the wolf got too close to the great black beast he would not hesitate to engulf her in flames. “Stop!” she sobbed again. “Please!”

Daenerys turned back to Sansa. She made herself as cold as ice and ten times as unforgiving. “I give you Winterfell. I give you your life but I take your titles and holdings. Do you deem that a fair punishment?”

Sansa hesitated, looking from her champion to the dragon, with a last fluttering amount of hope that the knight might be able to slay the dragon. 

Brienne leapt back as Drogon snapped his teeth at her again. She dropped her shield and then she was running, sprinting, as fast as she could, gaining enough speed so that when she went to her knees she was sliding across the ice. Drogon snapped his teeth, but she was too close for him to bite, and as she slid under his head she reached up with her sword, managing to land a blow on the corner of the thin black flesh around his eye. 

Sansa cheered in triumph at the line of red that appeared, and Drogon roared and screamed, thrashing his head as Brienne scrambled to her feet, watching his teeth and mouth, what everyone in the world knew to be the most dangerous part of the dragon. But what most people didn’t understand was EVERY part of a dragon was dangerous. His bones were solid stone, his teeth were sword, his claws spears, it’s flesh sharp spines. 

His tail a battering ram which is what came whipping around just then, catching Brienne in the chest and sending her flying through the air. 

She crashed against a tree and fell to the ground with a heavy thud and a muffled scream, clutching her bleeding shoulder where the stitches tore open. Drogon opened his mouth to breathe fire and blood and death once more, and all three of the women knew the knight was too beaten to move out of the way quick enough this time.

“ _ Do you deem that a fair punishment?! _ ” Daenerys demanded, watching the black throat grow a deathly red, moments away from shooting flames.

“Yes!”

“Cease!” 

Daenerys yelled with such ferocity, speaking the command in both the common tongue and valyrian, that Drogon had no choice but to obey. The dragon thrashed and roared and screamed but he took a step back from the blonde, hissing and snapping his teeth at Brienne, the desire for vengeance for the strike urging him to finish the job but subservience to his mother came first. “Fly!” she ordered him, and with a furious flap of his great wings he flew into the sky as fast as the winds could carry him.

Brienne sank to her knees, whipping off her helm, tossing it in the snow and taking much needed gulps of breath. Selwyn ran as fast as he could on one good leg and wrapped his daughter in his arms, his shoulders shaking as he wept. 

Daenerys put a hand on Sansa’s shoulder and squeezed, a tender reassurance to anyone who didn’t know better. “Realize what I could have let happen,” she said low enough so none of the others could hear. “If you ever think of trying to get around my decisions again remember my mercy, and remember that I have none left to spare for you.”

She turned to face the rest of the stunned audience, many of them looking terrified as foul memories of the stories of Rickon Stark were brought to mind. “Lady Sansa has yielded, and I have accepted the yield. Her champion fought bravely, and will be rewarded for her efforts.” 

Selwyn regained his composure and he and Brienne, with a large dent in her breastplate, were making their way back to the muttering crowd, the tall woman staring down at the ground and her father glaring at the silver haired queen, but he said nothing, remembering himself, and more importantly remembering who gave him his newly acquired titles. Sansa stumbled to her feet and threw her arms around Brienne, all decorum long forgotten as she sobbed her apologies. The knight froze for a moment before she hugged the redhead back, every moment tensed beyond words, as though she wasn’t sure what a hug was. “I’m alright, My Lady,” Brienne muttered as Sansa wept. “I’m alright.”

When Sansa finally released her Brienne turned to Jaime, who Daenerys noticed for the first time, and her heart jumped into her throat.

“Jaime?” Brienne called out as she approached the Kingslayer who stood there, not seeing the world or any in it. He did not look angry, he did not look scared, his expression was completely blank. His eyes were glossed over, looking far past Brienne. not seeing any of the world around him. His face was pale, his body was limp, his breathing was rhythmic and shallow. His body was there but his mind was far gone. “Jaime?” she tried again, louder, but he didn’t hear her. “Somebody help him!” the woman who was just nearly killed by a dragon, who was beaten so hard it severely dented the most expensive armor any of them had ever see, cried out, looking frantically around the equally confused audience. She took his hands in her hands, biting her lip so hard she drew blood to hold back her terrified tears. “Jaime! Jaime, come back to me! Jaime! JAIME!”

Grey Worm walked over to them. He grabbed a large chunk of ice from the ground before he gently pushed aside Brienne. Without a word he tore the Kingslayers glove off and put the ice in the palm of his hand, curling his fingers around it so he was holding it tight. The water dripped through his fingers and his flesh turned a bright red at the sensation of the cold burning him. A moment later Jaime blinked and gasped, throwing the ice down and shaking his hand free of the pain, taking several steps backwards and gasping for air. He looked around the grounds as though he couldn’t recall how he had even gotten there.

But then his eyes found Daenerys, and he remembered.

“ **YOU BITCH!”** he roared, lunging at her. The tips of his fingers just brushed against her throat when he was tackled into the snow by one of the Dothraki.

“Jaime!” Brienne cried out and he froze, vengeance immediately forgotten.

“Brienne…” ” he breathed, and then he was fighting not to get to Daenerys but to his knight. “Get off me!” he snarled at the Dothraki. “GET OFF!”

“Let him go,” Daenerys commanded in the horse lord's native tongue. The Dothraki let Jaime up and he sprinted towards the blonde, tears streaming down his face. He threw his arms around her, crashing into her so hard that they both fell in the snows, and then he was kissing her face, her cheeks, her lips, anywhere he could reach and weeping and clutching at her, giving no care for the large looming man standing next to her and glowering at the lion.

“Let me teach him a lesson, Khaleesi,” the Dothraki spat as he climbed to his feet. “You should take an ear, to teach respect.”

Daenerys shook her head. “If I was in his position I would have done a lot worse. I will not punish the Kingslayer for anything he did or said here today. How did you know how to help him?” she asked, turning to Grey Worm. “With the ice?”

“When many young Unsullied are cut,” he told her in his native tongue, wanting to keep his soldiers' traumas a secret from the Westerosi. “Or when they go through their training, they go blank like the Kingslayer did. Ice brings them back.”

The Queen nodded slowly, offering her thanks, though wishing with everything she had that he did not have to need to know that knowledge. The sun was dipping below the horizon and she was growing cold. She looked towards Jon and she flinched at the look in his eye that she never wanted to see in his face.

He was afraid.

Without a word she turned and headed back to the castle, the crowd parting for her as if she were living flames and they might be burned if they came too close, and Jon followed behind like an unhappy servant being ordered to follow his master.

_ I don’t want to be your master, _ she wanted to scream as they walked to her chambers _. I want to be your wife. I want you to walk beside me.  _

When the door was shut behind them he immediately turned to her. “Would you have gone through with it?” 

“Jon-.”

“Would you?” he demanded. “Would you have let a woman, a woman you know to be innocent, burn alive just to make a point?”

“I was praying Sansa wouldn’t force me too,” Daenerys answered as diplomatically as she could. “I knew Brienne had enough Targaryen blood, however diluted as it is and no matter how much stink of lion is about her, to give her enough of a chance to last long enough for your sister to rethink her choice.”

“But if she hadn’t yielded,” he pressed. His eyes were big and pleading, urging her to say what he thought was the right choice. “If Sansa allowed it to go on-.”

“Sansa was the one who chose trial by combat,” she reminded him sharply. “If she allowed it to go on she would have suffered the fate of that choice.”

“She thought Brienne would be going up against a Dothraki or an Unsullied! She never would have chosen that if she knew you would force Brienne to fight a dragon!”

Fire came alive inside her. “And now she knows to never try to get around my decisions again.”

“You mean your decision to give the North to a traitor!” he spat.

“Have care how you speak of Ser Jorah,” she warned. “And you promised to support me.”

“Aye, and I did!” he yelled. Do you see anyone else around us right now?! Is anyone else hearing me disagree with you?!”

“Support means supporting whether there is an audience or not, otherwise it is just lying to your people.”

He narrowed his eyes at the Queen. “So I’m just supposed to not have any opinions, at all? Or would you prefer me call you out in front of the men, let them see me questioning you?”

“I’d prefer you not shout at me for choices I make about  _ my _ kingdom!” 

“The North may be your kingdom but it is my home! And it should not be in the hands of a man who did the same thing you burned people for! Or does his crimes of slavery not count?”

Daenerys felt a blush paint her cheeks for a moment and she licked her lips. “Ser Jorah realized what he did was wrong. He helped make it right,” she argued, “he helped free far more slaves then he ever sold.”

Jon glared at the Queen, and she gave the same hateful fire filled look back. “Well I hope the men he sold lived long enough to enjoy their freedom,” he spat. “I hope that when he rules the North he sells no more of my countrymen into slavery. I hope he doesn’t run away like the cowardly traitor he is the next time justice is being served.”

“I told you, have care how you speak-!”

“THIS IS MY HOME!” Jon stormed up to the stunned Queen. “This is MY home! These were my fathers chambers! I will talk about whoever and whatever I want in here so long as those words are not treason! Since insulting the queens adviser is not bloody treason, I will speak about the FUCKING traitor however I want!”

Daenerys walked towards him, leaving not an inch of space between them. She stared up at him, violet amethysts baring into gray, neither looking away, nether willing their roaring flames to a simmer. 

“If you  **_ever_ ** raise your voice to me again…” Her voice shook with fire and blood and passion. 

“What?” he snarled, taking another step until they were pressing up against one another. For a moment, in the dimming light of day and the low flames in the fireplace the glint inch his eyes could have been purple. The heat was burning them both, coming off of them in waves. “You’ll do  _ what _ ?”

Daenerys grabbed him by his jerkin and crashed her lips on his, and he was immediately kissing her, tearing at her gown, groping at her curves. He fisted her long silver hair and yanked her head back, brushing her arms and sucking and biting and nipping at the crook of her neck, hissing when she raked her nails over his back so hard she drew blood.

He ripped away her corset and she yelled as his fingers tugged and pinched at her nipples, rolling the stiffened bud between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Jon!” she gasped, pressing into his hand. She yanked at his curls and shoved his head down to her chest. He bit down before soothing the sharp bite with his warm tongue. “Fuck!”

Jon lifted her up and tossed her down on the bed, immediately covering her body with his own as he kissed, their tongues dancing together. She dug her nails into his ass, mauling him, enjoying the boss of pain she drew from his lips. He moaned low in his throat, fisting her hair again, and she gasped as he kissed and sucked at her neck, leaving his mark, claiming her, and she in turn claimed him.

His fingers dug into her thighs and flipped her over, yanking her to the edge of the bed. Flashes of an empty field in the Dothraki sea and a stifling smoky tent rushed to her mind, and for the length of a heartbeat she could feel no more pleasure, only fear.

“Stop!” she cried, and he did.

For a moment the fear was gone, and confusion replaced it. Jon was not Drogo or Daario, she knew that. She knew that  _ very _ well. But it was still mind boggling to know a man would actually listen and stop at the exact moment of her request. He didn’t ignore her pleas, nor did not try to ease and smooth-talk his way into doing what he wanted, pulling away only when she made it abundantly clear that she would not do what he wanted.

“What’s wrong?” Jon panted as he took a step back from her. Daenerys turned herself over so she could look at him. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, sighing as she pushed her hair from her face. “I’m fine, I just… I don’t like being taken that way.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologized , and tears welled in her eyes. Even when she and Drogo grew close, when he grew to love her, he never said he was sorry for their first few weeks of marriage. Of holding her down, ignoring her tears, ignoring her begging and muffled screams. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quickly, eyes wide. “Daenerys-.”

“You didn’t,” she sniffed. “You didn’t hurt me at all… I’m sorry for ruining this,” she muttered, wiping away her tears.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he assured her, coming down the bed to sit beside her. “Besides you’re with child. You’re allowed to show a little emotion.”

She chuckled softly before her smile fell. She drew her lip between her teeth and she turned to him, pulling the sheet over her so he would not be distracted. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Never,” he said quickly. A little too quickly.

“You’re lying. I saw you in the field. You were afraid of me.”

Jon swallowed hard and looked down at the floor, gathering his thoughts before he spoke, answering slowly, choosing each word with a careful precision. “You… have a lot of power,” he finally settled on.

“As do all queens and kings.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. You have a dragon,” Daenerys.”  _ A _ dragon. Just one. Rheagal was no longer hers, Daenerys knew and what was more was did Jon. For some reason that knowledge did not make her feel as bad as she thought it would. She was almost happy that he had a dragon and Rheagal had a rider as noble and worthy as Jon. “You have the same power that conquered a kingdom, that reduced castles to ruin, that made kings and queens into lords and ladies. I just watched the best fighter I know almost die and had it not been for your mercy and Sansa’s yielding Lady Brienne would be nothing but a pile of ash. It takes arrows ten feet long or spears of solid ice thrown by the dead to take it down.”

“If you had that power, you would use it,” she argued. “Anyone would.”

“I know. Many would use them with far less restraint, others with far more. My brother Robb, I do not see him using their power near as often as you. Cersei Lannister however… She would bathe the world in flames and smile as its people burned, the good and bad alike.”

“So what? Do you want me to be more like your brother? To use them only on those the whole world agrees to burn? I was chosen to bring dragons back into the world, I cannot merely have them sitting in a cage until old age takes them.”

“But you cannot-  _ should _ not,” he clarified, “use them to harm the innocents. Use them in war against enemy soldiers, where any weapon that takes the field and wins the battle is fair game. Use them as a means of execution when the severity of the crime calls for it, I will not begrudge you that. The Targaryen sigil is a dragon, it is to be expected. But do not threaten an innocent woman whose only crime is standing for the woman she swore herself to with dragon fire. You are not your father, Daenerys. You are better than that.” He rested his hand on her stomach. “You will teach our son to be better than that.”

Daenerys rested her head on his shoulder and he wrapped his arm around her. The silence between them was comfortable, and warm and Jon was the first to break it. “I’m sorry for raising my voice.”

“You’re forgiven.” A beat, and then, “I’m sorry for telling you what you were allowed to speak on, and for saying you didn’t support me.”

“Thank you… Jon?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you hate Ser Jorah for what he did or for the way he loves me?”

“A little of both,” he admitted. “But I know you will never love him the way he loves you. The way you love me.”

“It’s true. But… is your hatred for what he did; is that felt by the whole North or is it because he fled from your fathers Justice?”

“What are you asking me, Dany?”

“I’m asking if the moment I leave the North in his hands will a knife find its way into his breast.”

“Truthfully?” She nodded. “I think if it’s  _ only _ a knife he finds stuck inside him, Ser Jorah should consider himself very fortunate.” She gnawed at her lip but said nothing, letting the comfortable silence fill the room again until there was a loud booming knock at her door. Daenerys jumped from the bed, eyes wide and Jon reached down and yanked Longclaw from its scabbard.

“Who is it?!” he barked in his most commanding voice, pushing Daenerys behind him. 

“Lord Selwyn.” The last of his politeness and restraint was hanging by a frayed thread. “I was wondering if I might have a word with the Queen.”

Jon looked back at Daenerys who nodded, grabbing her robe and pulling it around herself while Jon quickly dressed. When he opened the door the Evenstar walked in, a fire of rage burning hot in his bright blue eyes. His massive hands were clenched tight but they were not gripping either of the marble hilts on his sword belt. Not yet anyway.

“I’ll be right outside,” Jon promised, loud enough for the Lord of Tarth to hear, kissing her goodbye before he left, shutting the door behind him.

She watched the large man pace the floors, the only sounds in the room his heavy footsteps and the crackling of flames in the fireplace. After a while he came to a stop and took a heavy deep breath, in his nose and out his mouth.

“I did not make this call,” she reminded him. “Lady Sansa was the one who called for a trial by combat.”

“You choose the dragon, Your Grace.” His voice trembled, fighting to remain composed in the face of the Queen. “You know, as well as I, when someone calls for a trial by combat-.”

“They are hoping to subject proper judgement.”

“That may be, but you nearly killed her, your Grace! She would have slaughtered any Dothraki off horseback, she would have been equal in strength to one of your Unsullied!” He closed his eyes and took another breath again. “Brienne would not have been risking her life if you had chosen your champion fairly,” he said slowly, choosing each word as to cause the least offense.

“You’re right,” Daenerys agreed. “With the exception of a Dothraki on horseback Lady Brienne would have probably won one on one against any champion I picked. Your daughter is not only incredibly skilled and one of the best swordsmen I’ve ever seen she wears the very best armor and fights with a valyrian steel sword. It would not have been right to sacrifice one of my men for Sansa’s whims. I put my hopes that she would yield to spare the life of her friend, and she did, but I had to show the North and her I will not allow my decisions to be challenged or else there will be consequences.”

“But it would have been my daughter who faced the true consequences,” he whispered, as though that one fact should have changed everything. Daenerys laid a hand on his arm and offered him a gentle smile. 

“I know, and you have every right to a fathers rage. I refuse to begrudge you of that, Lord Selwyn, the same as I am not begrudging Ser Jaime the anger entitled to a lover.” His face flushed red with scarlet and he narrowed his eyes at the comment but said nothing in response. “And I apologize for putting your daughter in the middle of this, but I will not apologize for sparing the life of Greyworm or any of my other men because Sansa wanted to play games.”

Selwyn nodded slowly. “You say Sansa is playing games, but you were the one who set her on an unwinnable chessboard. You used Brienne for your own plots. My daughter is not a chess piece, she never wanted to get in the middle of you two. You’re throwing her head first into a game she has no desire or knowledge how to play, she is far too honorable and good for this. Her soul is far too beautiful for the games the high lords like to play.”

“I agree. Lord Selwyn I swear to the old gods and the new I agree. But I had no choice.”

“We all have choices,” he said rather bluntly. I chose to fight for you because you’re my kin, and because I heard the tales of your heroics. I chose to fight for your father, knowing the horrible awful vile things he did, because that is the throne my grandmother's father and brother sat upon. I chose to fight for a green boy with no legitimate claim to the throne because my daughter loved the man who led the host. Even after putting my daughter at risk I choose to be loyal to House Targaryen. Because House Targaryen is family to House Tarth, Your Grace. Because your ancestors liberated mine from invading Myrish, because I am your family, which is why you gave me the title of Lord of the Stormlands. But Brienne is family to you as well. All I ask is you to remember that the next time you want to condemn someone to murder all because they offer to fight for someone they swore their lives for.” He bowed his head. “I hope I have not given offense your Grace.”

“You haven’t,” she promised. “As I said, I will not condemn you for feelings any father would have, and thank you for your respect, even in the face of anger.”

“Yes well… I figured if I unleashed it all on you there would be none left for the Kingslayer when I see him.” She chuckled and he bowed his head. “Your Grace,” he said once more before taking his leave, finally giving Daenerys a moment alone to ponder his words.

She sat down in front of the fire, the same place she chose her champion just a short while ago, and watched her son dance with his lioness, and Daenerys smiled. Even in the dark flickering flames he looked so happy, and a guilt at something she hadn’t even done yet gnawed at her. She did not want to take this life away from him. She wanted him to smile and to be happy, always. As happy as he made his mother.

_ I will make him happy,  _ she thought firmly. “I will,” she said aloud, wrapping her arms around her belly. “A hundred times over I will…”

She just wished she was as confident as she sounded… 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have an endgame number of chapters (with one or two numbers of difference depending on if I join or split a few chapters) but it is all planned and an ending in sight and we love it!

He was with Brienne, and they were happy. 

They were on a white sandy beach watching the sunrise over the spectacularly blue oceans of her sapphire isle. She was sitting between his legs and leaning back against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her and she was happy and beautiful and whole. Her shirt was red and blue with the lion sigil embroidered on her chest while he wore the suns and moon of her House, equal in all ways. She was proud to fly the sigil of her husbands House, she was proud to be a Lannister, she was proud to name Jaime the father of their children and no one would ever call his son a stag or his daughter a doe ever again.

Brienne was his Evenstar and he was her Lord Husband. They loved one another and no Queen, wretched they had eyes of emeralds or violet, could tear them apart. There were no fires, no flames, no dragon and the clear beautiful blue water stretched out before them as far as the eye could see and the two of them happy and alive and unburnt. 

But then he was cold, and his hand began to burn and throb. 

Jaime blinked and all of a sudden the sunrise was replaced by a snowy field and he was no longer alone with his wench but there was a crowd around him. Shaking his hand to try to get the icy burning to leave, a large chunk of ice fell to the ground before him. He gasped for air as he looked around, trying to remember why he was standing out here in the cold holding ice, trying to remember why he went away inside. 

But then in his frantic thinking he saw Daenerys, standing there as though she hadn’t just taken everything from him, and it all came rushing back. 

Brienne.

The dragon.

The fire.

**“YOU BITCH!”**

Jaime pounced and the very tips of his fingers brushed her throat before he was tackled to the ground by one of her horse lords who held him down, an unstoppable iron force. 

“Jaime!” And he froze. He looked towards the sweetest word said by the sweetest voice he ever heard.

“Brienne…” He was fighting again, trying to scratch and claw and kick and punch his way out of the long haired man who was still on top of him. “Get off me!” Jaime snarled, but he would not relent. “GET OFF!”

The Queen barked something to her guard in his own language and a moment later the Dothraki stood and Jaime immediately climbed to his feet and ran towards her, crashing into her and wrapping his arms around her so hard that they fell into the snows together.

“Brienne!” he wept, kissing her wherever he could reach and burying his hands in her beautiful disheveled hair. He saw none of the onlookers, he saw nothing or anyone but her, and cares about nothing except the fact she was here, and whole and she hadn’t perished in the worst way a man could perish, the way that filled his nightmares, the only way he feared dying.

“I’m okay,” she said, doing a much better job at choking back her tears than he was doing at hiding his, wrapping her arms around him. “I’m okay.”

The moment the Queen walked away the crowd erupted in conversations over what happened. Some were outraged, some were likening her to when Aerys killed Ned Stark's father, others were commemorating her for her mercy, a near unheard of act in a trial by combat. Jaimie ignored them all. He didn’t care about any of them, he didn’t care about the Queen or Sansa or their games. Let them fight over that uncomfortable ugly chair and let them argue over keeping the drabbest dreariest part of the country under the realms control; he just wanted Brienne. 

She bit back a moan of pain when he accidentally jostled her shoulder, and he quickly pulled back. “You’re hurt.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She cupped his face with her hand and he immediately covered it with his. “Are you okay?”

Despite everything else he couldn’t help the amusement that shone in his eyes and warmed his lips into a smile. “You just fought a dragon but you’re asking if  _ I’m  _ okay?”

“Of course I am,” she said, as though that would be the obvious thing to inquire about after she was nearly incinerated and was smashed in the chest with a battering ram. 

He ran his hand through her mess of pale straw hair, hardly able to believe he had somehow gotten so lucky. “What am I gonna do with you, Wench?”

“For starters you can let her up out of the snow and let her be seen by the Maesters.”

He looked up at the man standing right beside them. Brienne’s father. Brienne’s very large, very tall father who could swing a greatsword with the effort it took other men to swing a small one, and who just realized his only daughter was involved with the most dishonorable man in the realm.

Jaime cleared his throat and nodded, climbing off Brienne who was blushing so violently her face was as red as the sword belt buckled around her waist and helping her to her feet. She looked at herself for the first time since she was spared and frowned. The blue steel was badly dented in the front, the force of the tail concacing the metal in so close that he wagered half an inch more and it would have tore at the flesh underneath, and the force of the impact from the tree and the branch had made the backplate and the shoulder coverings all but unusable. She brushed her finger against the dent and tears rushed to her eyes. “My armor…”

Jaime shook his head. “It’s alright, Brienne, it’s fine. It did what it was supposed to do; protect you.” This was the last thing he wanted her to worry about right now. “I can get it fixed,” he promised. Selwyn furrowed his brow. “When everything is all said and done I’ll go down to Kingslanding and have Tobho fix it.” Jaime smiled at her. “Besides all good armor needs a few good dents and scratches. I didn’t buy it for you so you could look like one of those lords who never leave the command tent.”

The three of them began the long walk to the castle. 

“Brienne,” Sansa said as they passed, her voice trembling as she watched them walk back towards the castle. “I’m so-.”

“If you can manage to do it without screwing up, tell your Maester to come to her chambers,” Jaime barked, in no mood for faux politeness, he didn’t care whose keep he was staying in.

Sansa swallowed hard. “You can’t talk to me like that,” she muttered, sounding far less like a wolf and more like the little unsure girl she really was.

He laughed without humor. “I’ll talk to you any way I want, Stark.”

“No, you won’t,” Brienne groaned, clutching her side. “Lady Sansa is still a Highborn Lady, she is still the Lady of Winterfell, she still deserves your respect.” Jaime pursed his lips, wanting to remind her it was because of the redhead she almost died but he just wanted to get that armor off Brienne and he guessed hearing arguments about the brat was the last thing the knight wanted to hear. 

So Jaime just ignored her and helped Brienne back inside, no one saying a word until they had her back on her chambers and sat her down on the bed. She groaned and put her hands to her ribs, inhaling sharply as she slowly sat. Her father stepped back whereas Jaime undid his jacket and tossed it on the back of the chair, making it abundantly clear, if it wasn’t already, that he wouldn’t be leaving her.

“I need to go and speak to the Queen,” Selwyn said, eyeing Jaime with distaste, as though somehow it was his fault all this had happened. “Are you alright, Brienne?” She nodded and he came over and kissed the top of her head. “I’m so proud of you,” her father whispered, a thousand emotions swirling in his words. 

Her skin turned a soft warm red at the compliment. “Thank you,” she muttered.

With another kiss he turned to leave, pausing at the doorframe and looked back at Jaime, big blue eyes hard. “I’ll speak to you later,  _ Kingslayer _ .”

“You know what?” Jaime mused after the Evenstar left, “I think he rather liked me.” 

He handed Brienne a cup of water before he started unbuckling her armor, biting his lip as she winced as he pulled away the ruined breastplate and undid the arm and shoulder straps. He loosened her chainmail and helped her pull it over her head, being careful not to jostle her shoulder too bad. The three hands worked at pulling off her shirt and Jaime took a sharp breath and held it as he looked at her. Her whole chest and back seemed to be black and blue, and the side she landed on was caked in blood and bruises. 

“Does anything feel broken?” 

She shook her head, pulling on one of the shirts Jaime handed her that she should just slide on. “I think I’m just banged up and need to get my stitches redone.”

“We’ll have the Maester check you out but I think you should be fine. Probably give you some milk of the poppy to help with the pain, maybe tell you to take a nice long hot bath…” Jaime chuckled as her cheeks turned crimson. “I love making you blush.” He reached up and pushed a pale block lock from her face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

She nodded. “I’m more worried about you. You really scared me out there, Jaime,” she admitted.

He swallowed hard. Once he tried to tell Cersei what he did when confronted by trauma, he told her how he went away inside and imagined that he was far away from the horrors in front of him and painted a picture of the two of them together instead. She laughed at him, sneering that he was pathetic for seeking an escape rather than facing it like a real man would. After that Jaime didn’t tell her that Tommen confided in him that he used the same escape when Joffrey used to be cruel to their youngest boy.

“I-... Its-...” Jaime ran his hand over her face and sighed. “I go away inside,” he finally muttered. “During Aerys, when he burned Rickon and… other times. Like now.” He waited for the sneers, for the laughs, for her to call him weak for not wanting to deal with the terrors of the world. But instead she just reached out and grabbed his hand. She wasn’t looking at him with sneer ors even pity, she looked as kind, and understanding as she always did. “I blank out, I don’t see what’s happening in front of me, I go somewhere else.”

“Where do you go?” she asked, and Jaime gnawed at his lips. She would be honest with him, he owed it to Brienne to be honest with her.

“I usually picture myself and Cersei.” She didn’t look away, didn’t scrunch her face up in disgust, didn’t judge him. “Tonight though I was with you, on Tarth.” He smiled. “We were watching a sunrise on the beach.”

Brienne gifted him a soft smile. “That sounds lovely.” And then her smile fell. “When we were captured, and you told me to just close my eyes and picture Renly… you weren’t being snide were you? You were trying to tell me to go away inside.”

“I wanted you to protect yourself,” he said. “I… I wanted to go away when I started to hear you screaming,” Jaime admitted. “But I wanted to try to save you if I could.”

“You did.” She grabbed his stump and ran her fingers over the crisscrossed scars. Her lips flickered up into a smile. “More than once…”

“And I’d do it all again. Which is why I need to tell you; you need to break away from Sansa.”

Brienne’s face fell. “I swore-.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know, and I know how much you value your oath and your vows, and I love that about you. But she is going to get you killed Brienne. She nearly had you burned alive just so she could keep her titles.”

“She didn’t know I’d be fighting a dragon,” she said, stubbornly loyal. 

“And that still makes it okay to risk your life? You think that if she chose Grey Worm instead and you beat him, Daenerys wouldn’t have taken revenge? Or Gods forbid what if you managed to slay the dragon? She would have run you though.”

“If I had won the trial, the Queen would have understood it wasn’t murder but a legal-.”

“The Dornish bitch that fought with the Queen didn't understand,” he spat. 

Jaime knew Cersei was cruel. He knew it since he watched her grab and twist an infant Tyrion’s cock until he was screaming, and he hated that about her, even when he loved her. But when he found out what his twin did to the snake, what Cersei made Ellaria endure after Myrcella died in his arms, he had never been so glad for her malice. He wished more than anything he could have been there to see the look in her eyes when she realized her daughter was dying and she would be forced to watch it all. He wondered if she was still there, watching her decay, forced to smell the rot.

Jaime hoped she was. He hoped she would be there until the Stranger dragged her down to the deepest level of the seven hells years and years and years from now. 

“Those cunts who murdered my daughter didn’t care what was a legal fight,” he continued, shaking the thoughts from his mind. “Myrcella was an innocent, who had  _ nothing _ to do with what happened to Oberyn, and because of what her idiot prince did in as a legal trial you fought in they killed her and then Daenerys went and welcomed them with open arms. You think their leader would be any more understanding than them?”

She swallowed hard, and he raised a brow awaiting an answer. “It didn’t happen that way anyway,” she muttered, ignoring the question, “I lost, and Daenerys yielded after  _ Sansa _ begged her to.”

“Sansa should have yielded the moment she saw the dragon,” Jaime said sharply. “And I know people like her, Wench, people who will do anything for power and hurt whoever they have to in order to get it, even unintentionally. It may not be another trial but someday soon she will ask you to help her rebel against the Queen, and she will ask you to play a part in her schemes, she will ask you to help her commit treason, she will ask you to die for her, again and you will say yes because you value your oath to a woman who would not do the same for you, and Daenerys will kill you for it.”

Brienne looked down at her floor, muttering too low for her to hear him. When he asked her to repeat herself she spoke up. “Sansa already did ask me to play a part in her games,” she muttered.

“How?”

“She wanted to give me Last Hearth, so that she would be my Liege Lady and I’d have to follow her commands, and then offered to find me a Northern husband who would be loyal to her.”

Oh Jaime was going to kill her. Many times over.

“You’re the next Evenstar,” he said, trying to get her to wrap her mind around just what Sansa was asking. “More than that now, you’re heir to the whole od the Stormlands… but she wanted to give you some worthless keep in an even colder part of the North just so you would stay loyal to you?” She nodded, almost embarrassed. “And then she wanted you to marry someone who wouldn’t be loyal to  _ you _ , but to  _ her,  _ even knowing that you and I-?”

“I told her no,” she interrupted him. “A very firm no, actually, on that second part.”

“But the fact that Sansa even  _ asked _ , Brienne…” He kneeled in front of her and took her hand in his. “You are so much more than a Stark bodyguard. You were not born to be her shadow and be complicit in her treason. You have the blood of Stormkings and the Kings of Tarth. You actually have a higher title then she does now, if anything she should be serving you! You were born to be a knight, and to be the next Evenstar and be with me, not die because wolves and dragons want to play games with each other.”

Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks, and she nodded. Jaime reached up and brushed away the tear and kissed her, being careful not to touch any of her bruises or cuts. A knock on her door interrupted them and Jaime opened it to find the Maester. The older man checked her out, confirming what they thought. No broken bones and her ribs weren’t cracked but they were quite bruised, and the wound in her shoulder that opened back up had to be restitched. He gave her a helping of milk of the poppy to help her sleep through the pain, and soon after Brienne was sleeping comfortably and Jaime sat at her bedside watching. 

A little while later as Jaime was feeding kindling into the flames Selwyn walked in. “How is she?” the Evenstar asked.

“Fine,” Jaime said, tossing a few more logs into the fire. “Maester said nothing was broken and gave her some poppy milk to help her sleep.” He stood and wiped the ash on his trousers. “How did your conversation with the Queen go?”

“Well, I think. I said my peace, she said hers… I understand, to a degree, what she was thinking with this ‘trial’.”

“What she was thinking doesn’t matter, the Queen is as mad as her father,” Jaime muttered, pouring himself a glass of wine. “Aerys Targaryen did the same thing to Rickard Stark that Daenerys just tried to do to Brienne.”

Jaime could still smell the burning flesh, still could hear the screams of father and son both, could see the flesh and blood drip from the holes in blackened armor. But Jaime went away inside before the end, picturing him and Cersei at Casterly Rock, remembering a rare moment where the keep was empty and he had been allowed to wake up beside her. 

“Rickard Stark slowly roasted to death in his armor over the course of an hour,” the Evenstar reminded Jaime none too gently. “This was unfair but it was not the same.”

Jaime raised his cup in mocking cheer. “Well I’m sure that burning alive quickly rather than slowly would have been of great consolation to Brienne.” 

Selwyn glared at Jaime. “Have you no respect for  _ any _ monarch, Kingslayer?”

“Not the ones who burn people alive.”

“So then you despise your sister?” 

“Why do you think I’m still here?”

“I think you're still here either because you got drunk and made a mistake, and you’re telling yourself you’re honorable enough to stay even if you don’t want to and you will run back to Cersei the first chance you get. Or you’re gathering information for your…  _ sister.”  _ He sneered the last word as though it were a curse.

Jaime scoffed and took a drink. “If you really think Brienne would betray Sansa’s secrets, even if I did ask her which I could frankly care less who sits on the throne, then you don’t know your daughter at all.”

“How  _ dare-! _ ”

“Secondly.” Jaime put the glass on the stand and stood, looking up at him with a challenging glint. “If you really thought I just made a ‘mistake’, that I’m staying solely because of my honor and just biding my time, why would I be with her now? Why did I attack the queen, why did I offer to take Brienne’s place at that trial? I love your daughter, My Lord,” he said, without a hint of hesitation or doubt. “I’ve loved Brienne for… a very long time,” he continued, the realization dawning on him for the first time just how long he pushed his feelings down. “And she loves me as well. I don’t know how the two of us got lucky enough to be born Highborn and fall for the people we want to be with without causing wars or scandals or insults to another House but we did.”

Selwyn nodded slowly. “You commit to your role well, Kingslayer.” Jaime didn’t try to hide rolling his eyes. “But I’m not a stupid man, nor am I blind. I know my daughter isn’t… a delight to look at.” Jaime had to remind himself that slapping the woman he loves father probably wouldn’t be prudent. “And I know how men, especially arrogant Highborn men like you, think and act.”

“There are no men like me. I think Brienne is beautiful, every part of her, inside and out. You can accept that as my truth or not, but it IS the truth. One day we will say the words in front of a septon either at Evenfall or Casterly Rock, she will take my name and wear the sigil of my house as proudly as I will wear the crescent moons and suns of hers, and she will carry my trueborn children.” 

Jaime smiled, showing a glint of teeth. “I would  _ hate _ for their only grandparent to not only not be involved in their lives, but for his name to die out because their mother, so distraught over her father not accepting her choice of husband, doesn’t name a single one of them Tarth. Something we do not have to do, but would do if we have more than one, simply because I recognize how unfair it is that the Tarth name would die out with her merely because she’s your only child.”

He clapped the rather stunned man on the massively broad shoulder. “Think on that, Lord Selwyn.” Jaime walked over and grabbed his coat, pulling it on as best he could with one hand. “I’m going to allow you to be alone with her because you are her father and were it my daughter I would want the same respect.” He gave a polite if not reserved bow of his head. “My Lord.” 

He left the room, deciding it would be too insulting to kiss her goodbye and shut the door behind them, leaning against the door and sighing. Jaime needed a drink. Badly. More than that, he needed to get out of this bloody castle, unable to stand its drab dreary walls or the people inside it a moment longer. By the time he saddled his horse and rode it out the gates of the city the sun had gone down and darkness fell over the North. In the far off distance he could hear a dragons scream, and he shuddered.

He rode to a small inn a little ways outside of Winterfell and after he tied up his horse he walked in, nodding to the innkeep. “One tankard of ale, please.”

“The Golden Lion of Lannister ordering ale in some Northern inn,” a familiar voice mused from besides the fire. Jaime raised a brow at his brother. “Never thought I would live to see the day,” Tyrion chuckled.

“Yes well this day is just  _ full _ of surprises.” Jaime thanked the innkeep for the and sat down beside the dwarf. He pursed his lips and tapped his fingers on the table. “Did you know? What she planned to do?”

“I encouraged the Queen to pick Jon as her champion,” Tyrion said. There was a slight slur to his voice. “I told her it would force Sansa to yield, that she wouldn’t want to watch either her brother kill her sworn shield, or her sworn shield kill her brother. She said she wouldn’t put him in danger, or any other of her men.” He took a long drink of tbe ale. “In a way she took my advice, she just… went a different direction.”

“She nearly killed her,” Jaime said sharply, “You realize that. Daenerys would have gone through with it if Sansa didn’t yield.”

A beat of silence and then. “I know. Why do you think I was hiding in here the whole time? But judging by the fact you aren’t locked up for murdering the Queen, I assume it all went according to plan.”

“And if it hadn’t? If Brienne had been killed or scarred, or had her bones broken? If she had been  _ burned _ , Tyrion _? _ ”

“She had to show Sansa that she could not keep defying her.” The words were someone else’s, Jaime could tell by the timbre of his voice. 

“Just like Aerys had to show Rickard and Brandon couldn’t keep defying him?”

“This was different, our Queen is not her father.” Tyrion didn’t sound nearly as confident as Jaime imagined he would’ve at one point. “If she was she wouldn’t have allowed Sansa to yield, she wouldn’t have given Brienne a chance to fight. She would have enjoyed watching you and her father strangle themselves trying to save her, but she didn’t. She is not mad, Jaime, she just… is protective over the people she cares about, and sometimes doesn’t think about the consequences or afterthought when she protects them.” He lowered his voice so only Jaime could hear. “Kind of like another person I know, who crippled the son of the Warden of the North to protect his family.”

Jaime quickly looked away. “That’s different,” he muttered.

“How? Would you have told Father or Cersei or Tommen or Myrcella to go out and fight one of the best swordsmen in Westeros because someone else commanded it? Someone who was responsible for Gods know how many of your men’s deaths? If you had a blood thirsty lion at your disposal who no man could beat, wouldn’t you rather risk that?” Tyrion pursed his lips. “I mean we could have sent Joffrey but…”

In spite of himself Jaime chuckled and took a sip of his ale. “I don’t think I would have even risked Joffrey.”

“Why not?”

“The boy was a coward and a bully,” he muttered. “Attacking little girls, doing all his fighting with a crossbow, abusing and tormenting a child who couldn’t fight back or leave but he was still mine. Cersei always called Tommen weak, always called him a coward, always compared him to Joffrey but Tommen…” A small sad smile lit up his face. “He was much braver than she knew. He was strong enough to remain kind and decent and good in a family where that's entirely frowned upon.”

“Much like his father,” Tyrion mused and Jaime rolled his eyes. “It’s true. If Joffrey was Cersei’s, then Tommen was most assuredly yours.”

“And Myrcella was the best of both of us, with her uncle's wit at that.”

Tyrion lifted his glass. “To Myrcella’s brains, Tommen's innocence, and Joffrey's… good looks.”

Jaime laughed, and grinned as he nodded and clinked his glass against Tyrion’s. “And may the fourth have them all.”

Tyrion just smiled awkwardly and took a long drink. When he was done he cleared his throat. “So... you’re going to sit out the war in Winterfell.”

“That way seems easiest.”

“And Brienne is going to stay here with you, she’s not traveling south?”

Jaime nodded. For some reason talking with his brother asking about his relationship, something he never did before with Cersei, made him feel a bit stiff and awkward. This was what normal siblings did, but Jaime was not used to being asked questions about a woman so openly before, least of all by his brother . “She’s sworn to protect the Stark girls so…” In the light of the fire Jaime could see the amusement in his pale green eyes and he rolled his. “Say something snide,” he muttered, looking away, preparing for what he knew was coming.

Tyrion looked at him with faux offense. “I’m happy, I’m happy that you’re happy.” He just glared until finally his brother began to smile. “I’m happy that you’ll  _ finally _ have to climb for it.”Jaime laughed, shaking his head at his brother who merely grinned. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to tell tall person jokes?” Tyrion raised his glass and Jaime followed. “To climbing mountains.”

They clinked the tankards together. “To climbing mountains.”

The two Lannisters drank and Tyrion looked at him when he was done. “So how was she?”

“ _ What? _ ” Jaime gaped at him, offended not only by the question itself but on Brienne’s behalf. “That's…  **not** your concern!”

“I have waited  **years** to be on the other end of this conversation with you and not have it involve our sister, give me a morsel.”

“You’re a dog!” he spat.

“I’ve told you all about the women I’ve been with!”

“I’ve never once asked about your sex life! You just choose to share the information, rather openly and without prompt, and I’ve learned there’s no escaping it!”

“And now I’m asking for you to be open.”

“No!”

“I am the imp, and I demand to know!”

“I knew you were fucking her.”

Jaime and Tyrion turned and saw Bronn strode in, grabbing an abandoned tankard of ale from the table. “A pair of tall blond toffs. Must be like looking in the mirror.”

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater,” Tyrion greeted him with a smile, motioning to an empty chair in front of them. “What are you doing up North? If you’re here to battle for the dead is over, you just missed it.”

“Oh that was by intention, I promise. Hid out in some abandoned house for the last few days, figured either the dead fuckers would come swooping down soon and I’d be fucked, or the owners would come by and I’d be a little less fucked. Thankfully for me I woke up with a dagger to my throat ordering me to get out and not a pair or blue eyes wanting to tear me limb from limb.”

All the while he was talking Jaime couldn't help but look at what he was carrying low at his hip. “What are you doing with that?” he demanded, knowing the weapon was far too fine for a man like the cut throat to carry.

“Oh, this? This is for you. For both of you, actually, courtesy of your sister. That and the dragon bitch, your pretty little wife and your… whatever you call the big blonde.”

“ **_What?!_ ** ” Jaime roared, clenching his hand into a fist. Fire and rage surges through him. He was so fucking sick and tired of people trying to kill Brienne. 

“Okay hang on,” Tyrion urged calmly. “She has to know that this idea is utter insanity. Killing us, fine, but the Lady of Winterfell? The dragon Queen? You’d never get within thirty feet of either of them, even Cersei knows that.”

“Yeah well ever since she lost the babe she hasn’t exactly been the picture of sanity.”

_ No… no. _

Jaime had to choke back his screams of grief. Tyrion immediately abandoned his chair and wrapped his brother in a bone crushing hug, and Jaime clutched at the dwarf, clenching his eyes tight so the tears welling in them wouldn't fall. 

Cersei lost the baby. She lost the baby,  _ their _ baby, and he wasn’t there. He let her go though this alone. Jaime whimpered as he fought back his sobs and his tears, as his guilt flooded him like a tidal wave, reminding himself that there would be a time to grieve, and now, with a hired assassin sitting across from him with a loaded crossbow was not it.

Jaime took a shuddering breath, pulling away when he knew he could be at least somewhat measured, and turned towards Bronn, shocking him with the stan of pity he was looking at him with.

“Yeah well,” the sellsword muttered, “she seems to think you,” he nodded at Tyrion, “and the Queen or Sansa and the Tarth girl is responsible for her losing the baby. Then she wanted me to drag you back to her so the mountain could finish you off for abandoning her. 

Jaime wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “No. No, I didn’t abandon her, I was trying to do the right thing. And Brienne would NEVER-.”

“I know that, ya fucking pisspot. But like I said she’s not exactly thinking clearly. She’s been killing folks left and right on a whim who she thinks may have even played a part in it. I think this was the final crack in your sisters head but be that as it may, your sister offered me Riverrun to carry out the deed. Nice big castle, good lands, plenty of peasants who do what they're told.”

“And you trust Cersei-.”

“I knew your sister was dead the second I saw those dragons,” he said. “Now, your army may be torn to shit, but I'd still bet on your Dragon Queen to win. And it just so happens I'm a betting man. If Cersei's dead, she can't pay up.”

Bronn reached out and picked up Jaime’s cup, drinking deeply. “Mmm, that's good. Now I know I ain’t ain’t got a snowflake's chance in hell of killing the Targaryen bitch, but the odds do change if the Dragon Queen's Hand turns up dead...”

“I’m no longer her hand.”

“Her top adviser then. And maybe without her sworn sword, Sansa-.”

“ **YOU ARE NOT KILLING BRIENNE!** ”

The lion's roar attracted the attention of every woman and man in the inn but he could have cared less. He just lived through watching her barely survived, he just learned another of his children were dead. He was tired of people taking the things he loved away from him. 

Bronn seemed unphased at the outburst. “Maybe without her sworn sword,” he said, daring Jaime to yell again. “Stark is easier to pick off as well, and the leader of the northern army is grieving too much to venture North, leaving his armies rudderless. Odds start to look a bit more in her favor.”

Tyrion swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “We made a deal, long ago. Do you remember?

“If anyone offered me money to kill you, you'd pay me double. What's double Riverrun?”

His brother sat silent for a long moment. His fingernail dug into the table as he thought. Jaime watched something catch his eye, and watched as his face fell and he took a deep breath. “I can give you Riverrun, with the eldest daughter of Catelyn Tully on your arm when you go to claim it.”

Bronn looked relatively impressed at the offer, while Jaime’s jaw dropped as he gaped at Tyrion. “A marriage alliance between him and Sansa? She’ll never agree to it!”

“You’d never be able to hold the Riverlands otherwise,” Tyrion continued, ignoring Jaime’s outburst.

“You think Sansa will just allow you to keep her uncle in a dungeon as she rules?! Even she’s not that cruel!”

“Edmure Tully won’t be in a dungeon, he will be busy ruling the second most powerful House in the Riverlands,” Tyrion answered. “His son will be given back to him and he will be named the new Lord of the Crossing. The Freys slaughtered his sister and nephew, and now he will rule there. I can think of no better gift.” 

The sellsword leaned back in his chair, pursing his lips. “She is quite pretty,” he mused. “And I always did like redheads, not to mention she’s finally old enough... Think she’ll go for it?”

“She owes the former Maid of Tarth BIG at the moment. She’ll do whatever she can to save her life, including marry you.”

“That may be right but you’re forgetting that the reason she owes Brienne is because Daenerys took away the North from the Starks,” Jaime reminded him. “Daenerys didn’t want Sansa in power, that was her punishment.”

“She won’t be in power,” Tyrion argued. “She’ll be respected because of who her grandfather is which will get Bronn in the door but she won’t be nearly as revered in the Riverlands as she is in the North. Don’t forget she’ll also be the wife of the lowborn man who sent away the rightful heir, she won’t exactly be swimming in popularity.” Tyrion turned back to Bronn. “How about it? Our lives for a nice warm wolf girl to warm your bed and give you sons? But know she isn’t going to be your whore, she’s going to be your  **_wife_ ** . That means you respect her, you honor her, you treat her gently, if you have any bastards you do not take them home or mention them to her. If she gives you sons you let her name them Robb and Eddard and Rickon. You do NOT strike her, you do NOT force her-.”

“I’ve never forced a woman in my life.” He smirked at the unamused dwarf. “I’m too busy fending them off.” The cutthroat sighed and sat in silence for a moment before he gave a curt nod. “You get the wolf to agree and your Queen to sign off on this, I accept.”

Tyrion’s smile looked more like a grimace but he reached out and shook his hand, a sign of a bargain well struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four out of the next five chapters are Jon or Dany chapters, I promise ❤️ And then after the next five, apart from 2 chapters they’re either solo Jon, solo Dany or they share one of the chapter povs.


	26. Chapter 26

_ Traitor _

_ The North belongs to House Stark _

_ Hang the slaver _

Daenerys didn’t turn from the red words on Jorah's door, all of them in different handwriting in what she hoped was crimson paint. The Queen reached out and brushed her fingers against the word ‘slaver’, one of the worst titles a man could wear in her eyes. The same title the North gave Ser Jorah. The paint was still damp, and her fingers came away covered in red. 

“They’re not very subtle are they?” a voice muttered.

Daenerys turned and saw her first friend and first supporter standing beside her also looking at the cruel words on the wood. While her eyes had been drawn to slaver, his was locked on traitor. “I will say this for the North, they are not shy in letting their opinions be known.”

“I admire that,” she admitted. “I admire a lot about the North and it’s people to be honest.”

“Genuinely or in a ‘respect thy enemy’ way?”

“The North is not my enemy, they are my people.” She turned back to the harsh red words. “I just wish they saw it like that.”

“They respected and bowed to the dragons once. Perhaps they will be again, in time.”

“Perhaps. Doubtful, but perhaps.”

Jorah invited her in and she glanced around at the chambers. The same decorations that decorated the wall of his various chambers in Essos decorated the walls here as well. A small tattered banner with the Mormont sigil and the words ‘Here We Stand’ beneath, the only thing he brought to Essos from Westeros, hung over a fireplace and on one side was his arakh and newly joined on the other side the valyrian steel sword called Heartsbane, given to him by Samwell Tarly as thanks for what Jorah's father did for him. His plain gray armor, the typical northern foot soldier armor, stood in a corner besides a Dothraki saddle and a chest of simple threadbare clothes sat at the foot of his bed. Other than that it was empty. 

Jorah had never been much for ornaments or gold, heavily favoring simplicity over exuberance. Even when they lived in the Great Pyramid. Rather he became accustomed to a simple life at House Mormont or during his time with the Dothraki he never said and she never asked

“Is there something you needed to talk to me about, Khaleesi?” he asked as he took off his jacket and hung it over the back of the bed. 

“Many things, Ser Jorah. First, I need to apologize. I should not have made my decision on you without consulting you first.”

He chuckled warmly. “Yes that was a bit of a surprise, I’ll admit.”

She gnawed are her lip. “I know I’m asking a rather biased person but do you think I made a mistake? Taking the North from the Starks and punishing Sansa?”

“As I’ve said before, there are no easy choices in ruling, Khaleesi. You allowed her to stay in the North with her family, you did not take Winterfell from her. You gave her what she should care about; her home and her family.” 

Her smile was sad. “You didn’t answer the question about whether I made the right decision or not.” 

Jorah just smiled in return. “I suppose I didn’t.” 

Daenerys wished there was a chair to sit on. She didn’t want to sit on the edge of his bed, that act would have been far too familiar and unfair.

“I’m sorry about your cousin,” she said. “Lyanna was a formidable girl from what I saw of her.”

“She was. I asked her to sit out the battle, told her she was the future of our house and if she fell all was lost. Lyanna told me no and probably saved thousands of lives during the battle with her sacrifice.”

“I see that stubbornness runs in your family.” Jorah chuckled and Daenerys smiled, only to have it fall moments later. “But you told her she was the future of your House… you did not have plans to reclaim Bear Island for your own?”

“No, Khaleesi,” he said immediately. “Until you gave me the island I never thought I would ever see my home again. I was dishonorable,” Jorah continued. “I betrayed and shamed my House, the North, Westeros, the Gods… Slavery is seen as the ultimate abomination and evil in the eyes of the Seven and the Old Gods, it has been for thousands of years. I broke the Gods laws to buy my wife some pretty things, and then fled rather than accept my punishment like a man.”

Daenerys nodded slowly, letting his words wash over her, turning them over and over in her head. Jorah had fought for his redemption both for her forgiveness and for his crimes, at least to her, but she was not a Northmen. She had not grown up in Westeros where she was taught since birth that slavery was the ultimate evil. She grew up in Essos. The stall in the market next to the one where Viserys would buy her an apple dipped in honey when she was a little girl sold slaves as if they were any other wares. Daenerys was waited on at Illyrios by men and women wearing the same metal collars she catapulted at the Masters and never once did not think a single thing of it. 

Not until she heard how the Unsullied earned their titles. Not until she saw crucified children as mile markers. Not until she saw the Dothraki whip the men and rape the women who healed her when she was sick and cooked her food. Not until Daenerys was forced to see what she had chosen not to see before.

Even Drogo’s promises to land his horde on Westeros’ shores Daenerys had not given any thought about at the time he said it but now? Now when she slept and saw the great Khal by her side when she conquered Westerosi and saw him keeping his promises to rape their women and take their children as slaves, she awoke weeping and in terror. 

Drogo would not have listened to her about the evils of slavery. He even treated her sparing the Lhazareen women from rape as a small amusement more than anything else, something to placate his pregnant Khaleesi just this once, and next time she would be expected to stand aside and allow the way of war to happen.

If she had grown up in Westeros would she be so forgiving to her Bear? So understanding towards a man who violated the laws of their gods and men, even if he did work to free slaves afterwards? Would that even matter to her?

No, she decided. It wouldn't have. She would have hated Jorah along with the rest of her countrymen, and she certainly would have never give him back his titles. 

“The poachers you sold into slavery.” He tensed but held fast. “How old were they?”

“Two of them were no more than thirty, the other… four and ten, if that.”

“Did they appear strong or weak?”

“The men seemed as big as any other Bear Islanders. The other-.”

“The boy,” she corrected. “Not the ‘other’, the boy.” 

Jorah nodded in understanding. “Yes, Khaleesi. The boy was not a cripple or a weakling but he did not look to be all that strong either.”

“Did you ever think about them?” Daenerys continued. “Did you ever think about what became of them? Did you think about whether or not they were forced into the fighting pits, if they were cut and made into healers for the Dothraki, if they were forced to breed with equally unwilling women all so their children could be sold?”

“At first they were nothing but wares, a means to an end. I was more ashamed of my escaping justice then selling those people into slavery. But then you began to preach freedom, and you freed your children, and afterwards at times they were all I could think about.”

She nodded slowly. “What were their names?”

Jorah swallowed hard, letting the silence stretch between them. “I never bothered to learn them, Khaleesi,” he finally admitted, shame painting his face and his words. 

Daenerys took a long deep breath. “Thank you for your honesty, Ser Jorah.” She worried at her lip. “Do you believe it is a good idea to give the North to your House? Or to reinstate you as the Heir to Bear Island?”

Jorah didn’t answer for a long while. He sat down on the edge of his bed and stared down at the floorboards, and Daenerys waited patiently for his answer. “I’ve never known you to second guess yourself, Khaleesi,” he finally said, still not looking at her. “When you make a decision you stick with it, and you allow the consequences to follow though, the good and the bad.” He turned to meet her gaze. “The fact that you’re even asking tells me you already know the answer. Not only that but they would kill me the moment you left, and your hatred of the North and her people would grow, and fester like rot. You would allow your hatred to cloud your decisions and further alienate the North against you, if you didn’t come seeking revenge immediately.” 

He stood from the bed and walked over to her, standing face to face with the woman he loved.

“If I were to rescind the titles I granted to you,” she asked softly. “Would you be angry with me?”

“Never, Khaleesi.” Jorah sounded as though he was wounded at the mere implication.

A weight the size of the world lifted off her shoulders. She raised her hand and rested it on his face and he closed his eyes, melting into the gentle touch as though he were being honored with the touch of the Gods. Daenerys allowed him to savor it for a moment before she pulled away. 

“What do you think I should do then ?” she asked. “Should I return it to the Starks? To Sansa?”

“I know you say the North are your people but Sansa does not see it that way. Not to mention it would make you look weak, like your choice to renege was made from pity rather than intellect. You already showed her enough of that when you spared the Lady of Tarth, you cannot give her more.”

“Agreed,” said Daenerys. 

“But the North are loyal to the Starks,” he continued. “No other region is as devoted to their liege lord as the North is to them, even the Wildlings know of the Starks and had Jon Snow been the son of any other lord they never would have followed him. The Baratheons, the Greyjoys, the Tyrells, the Tullys… All of them were only made great houses by Aegon's command. Their people are devoted, but not enough to commit civil war on the murder of their lord. The Lannisters have always commanded respect with fear and wealth and wit rather than love since Lann the Clever, and the Martells and Arryns are eternally beloved but neither hold a candle to the North’s reverence of the Starks. If you take it away from them, you will never hold the North.”

Daenerys felt her heart sink into her stomach. “So what do I do?”

Jorah smiled and took her hands in his. “Sansa is not the only Stark in Winterfell, Khaleesi…”

… 

The Godswood was quiet and peaceful even a bird didn’t dare to chirp. The winds were cold, and she shuddered as she wrapped herself in her furs, but she was not as frigid as she normally was. Daenerys laid a hand on her belly as she walked down the path to the sacred wood. Her son liked the bitter northern cold as much as he liked the blasting heat of the fireplace. 

She expected to find Bran sitting where he normally was, but instead she found a girl kneeling in front of the heart tree, bowing her head in prayer. Daenerys stepped on a branch, the sound seeming to echo in the clearing, and the girl lifted her head to look back at what interrupted her.

“Apologies,” Daenerys said in earnest before she saw who it was at prayer. “Arya…”

Arya stood from the ground, wiping the snow from her breeches. “Is there something you need, Your Grace?” she asked. She didn’t exactly sound friendly, but nor did she speak with vileness. She wasn’t happy to see Daenerys, but she did not dislike her either.

“No. No, I-... Well actually yes, I was looking for Bran.”

“He’s inside eating his supper. Even the power of the three eyed raven can’t resist a bowl of onion soup.”

“Onion soup? I don’t believe I’ve had that since I was a little girl but the broth was all watery, the onions were limp… I didn’t much care for it.”

“That’s because you’ve never had a proper  _ northern _ onion soup,” Arya said with almost a challenging grin. “With fresh garlic and nice thick beef broth and sweet caramelized onions, and so much melted cheese on top that it drips onto the table and a crusty price of bread to dip in it. It was the one meal the whole family always loved, even Sansa who called it a ‘peasant dish’.” Her smile fell though as she looked down at the ground. “Jon wrote to me once, when he first got to the wall. Said the onion soup there didn’t have any cheese on top. He said why bother making it if you were going to leave out the best part?” 

Daenerys frowned at the young girl and took a step towards her. “The truth doesn’t change or take away your memories.” Arya whipped her head up to stare open mouthed at her. “He is still your brother.”

“I know that,” she said sharply. “I know he's my brother, Jon will ALWAYS be my brother.” Her face softened and she looked away. “That’s what makes the truth so hard to bear. I want things to be as it was, but now I’m scared everything will change because of this. That he won’t want to be a Northerner anymore, that he won’t want to be a Stark.”

“Well if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Northerners is that change is the very last thing they want. That brought a soft small smile to her lips. “But would it be so bad? If he was to wear his legal sigil? If he were to embrace the other side of his heritage? If he stayed who he was, the noble fair and just man your father raised him to be, would dragon scales on his armor change that? Your sister wears gowns with trout scales on the sleeves as a way to honor your mother. Does that make her any less of a Northmen?”

Arya shrugged and glanced down at the snows. Daenerys took that to mean a no.

“I never knew Rheagar. All I have is stories told to me by others, and my other brother, Viserys, he was kind when we were small but he grew up to be hateful and cruel and mean. You’re lucky you have a brother like Jon, who would gift the entire world to you if he could, even if you were not of the same seed.”

“It’s just… my father lied to me. He lied to my mother, to Jon, to his people… Jon had to live life as a bastard, and all because of lies.”

“He was doing what he thought was best. He was trying to protect his sister's child, he was trying to protect my brother's son.”

“I know,” she muttered. “I just wish he trusted us with the truth.” Arya took a deep breath and looked up at the Queen, one of the few in Westeros who could. “Was there anything else, Your Grace?”

Daenerys nodded, searching over the honest face of the small girl, the Stark face. A face who the North would respect, and she in turn would respect the rule of her brother and good-sister. “There was, actually. I have decided to give the North back to your family. It was an ill-advised punishment and I apologize.”

“But you won the trial, Sansa yielded. Almost wish she hadn’t but…”

Daenerys quirked her head. “You aren’t fond of the Lady Brienne?”

“She was sworn to protect my mother and she let her die. She was sworn to protect my sister but where was she when Sansa was getting raped by Ramsey Bolton? She nearly killed the one person who looked out for me since Father without even giving Sandor a chance to explain herself, and now she’s sleeping with the man whose family destroyed mine. So no; I do not like Lady Brienne.” 

Arya let out a long breath, as though she had been itching to say that for a thousand years and had finally been able to let it all out. “But Sansa trusts her, implicitly, and I trust my sister so that means I need to trust the people she swears by. The same as I do with Jon and you.”

Daenerys' heart sank. “So you only trust me because your brother does?”

“I did,” Arya said, with blunt honesty. “But then I saw the way you look at Jon and I realize you don’t mean us any harm, that you only want to help my pack. Taking the north away from us aside…” 

“As I said, I am rescinding that punishment. I will put the North back in Stark hands, but it cannot be your sisters. She’s too… She doesn’t trust me,” Daenerys settled on, “and I cannot trust her. I wish we could get along, I cannot have someone with mutual distrust ruling the largest part of my kingdom.”

“But… you said you were giving the North back to the Starks.”

“I am.” Daenerys smiled. “I’m giving it to you.”

Arya’s gray eyes went wide and her jaw unhinged and dropped to the floor. She took a step back, and then another. “Me?” she whispered. “You’re-... you’re giving the North to me?”

“I am. You will rule the North from the seat of power at Winterfell. Your sister will be allowed to sit on your council, if you wish, but you will be the one in charge. You will be the Lady of Winterfell and the Lady of the North.”

She had to lean up against the large white tree to hold herself steady. Daenerys could see a thousand racing thoughts in her mind, and her lips parted, first in confusion and then fear, and then confusion again. She was frazzled, rightfully so, but even still the first words out of her mouth was not what Daenerys ever would have expected. “But what about Gendry?”

Daenerys blinked. “Pardon?”

“Gendry. You gave him Storms End.”

“I did, yes. I don’t see how that’s relevant to the North though.”

“It’s relevant because…” Arya gnawed at her lip, not out of nerves, but out of joy. “Because he asked for my hand the other night.”

“What?”

“And I accepted.”

“ _ What?! _ ”

This time it was Daenerys’ turn to be shell shocked. She had no idea the two of them were together. 

“You can’t tell Jon,” she said forcefully. “Not yet.”

“I won’t but you have my sincere congratulations nonetheless.”

“Thank you. It won’t happen for a couple years though. I want to see the world before I marry him, I want some time with my family.”

“Well he isn’t Lord of the Stormlands, just Storms End. I made the Tarths the Great Lords in that region. If he marries you he can become Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

“He’s breaking down over the thought of ruling one keep much less being a great lord,” Arya argued. “I’d sooner not have him rule ANY keep and it was just the two of us in some small house somewhere, no lands to govern, no titles… It wouldn’t be fair to ask him to do something he didn’t want to do just so he could be with me. He was willing to give up everything for me, and I’m willing to do the same for him.”

“Even the North?”

“I never wanted to rule the North. I only wanted to protect my family. I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

“No don’t be sorry, you’re fine.” Daenerys stared up at the large white tree. “Bran’s my last option.”

“He can’t have children. It’s the last of the line if you put him in.”

“Of course he can’t,” Daenerys sighed.

Arya shrugged. “Why not keep Jon the Warden of the North?”

“Because the north cannot be ruled from the south, not right now. The moment he leaves is when your sister takes command and commits open rebellion.”

“So why not rule from Winterfell?”

Daenerys blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You said you cannot rule the north from the south, so… rule the south from the north. Make Winterfell the new capital. The seat of power was in Kings Landing for three hundred years, maybe it’s time for a change.”

Daenerys shook her head. “That would never work.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” 

“Because why?”

“Because it just wouldn’t.” She took a deep breath to keep her temper from rising. “My ancestors built the Red Keep, Balerian the Dread forged the Iron Throne. The Iron Throne is my family's legacy.”

“So we move the throne to the Great Hall in Winterfell.”

Daenerys shook her head. “It just wouldn't work.”

“I don’t know then, your Grace. If I were you, I’d name Bran as the temporary ruler, let the people see you’re giving the North back to the Starks which’ll placate the Northmen and Sansa, then figure out the rest later.”

The Queen nodded. “That might work. Thank you, Arya. You’ve been very helpful with your counsel.”

“I wouldn’t call it counsel, just friendly advice.”

“I’ve found that's often the best counsel. I’ll leave you to your prayers.”

Arya bowed her head with a respectful, “your Grace,” and turned back to the weirwood. Daenerys left the Godswood, her mind far heavier than when she entered. 

She couldn’t rule Westeros from the North. That was utterly insane. Yes they had been forced to be ruled by southerners since Aegon, but that was different. The Red Keep was in King's Landing, the Iron Throne was in King’s Landing. Besides, if Daenerys moved in here permanently they would see it as a threat, she was sure of it. They would be frightened of her dragons, they would be frightened of her, although that may not be a bad thing…

But they might have also seen it as a sign of change, as a sign of her showing respect for the North. They wouldn’t need to travel the full length of the country to air their grievances. Afterall wasn’t that why the Starks held court the way they did? Because they could not afford to travel down to King’s Landing, and during the winter it was a miracle they made it to Winterfell much less the Red Keep. By design the North HAD to be somewhat independent and treat itself as a separate kingdom on that simple aspect alone. That was why they were still revered, even without the titles the Starks acted as kings.

She shook her head as she made her way inside the gray keep. That would never work. Her home was in King's Landing, not here. That was where she dreamed about ruling from, that was where Viserys always told her stories about, that was where she saw her son crowned and married. 

The Queen took a detour to the kitchens, and asked a plump older woman with gray hair, whose apron was covered in flour, to please get her a cup of onion soup and a slice of soft brown bead. The cook scoffed and for a moment Daenerys thought she might be ordered away.

“Begin’ ya pardon, ya grace, you don’t eat onion soup with brown bread,” the cooks said in a thick northern accent. She ladled her a large healthy serving of the brown soup, covering it with so much cheese that it bubbled over onto the plate under it, and giving her a large chunk of crusty white bread beside it. The cook nodded towards the bowl. “There’s a proper northern meal for ya’ better than any you’ll find anywhere else. It’ll warm a man’s bones even on the coldest night.”

“Thank you.”

“Your welcome, ya Grace.” She went back to kneading her dough. “Thank you, by the way, for lettin’ Sansa yield.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“Tarth’s a ugly one, aye, an’ shy as a turtle hidin’ in its shell, but she’s as kind a lass I ever saw, and Lady Sansa loves her as much as her own kin. It would have destroyed her to see her burned like that.”

“Yes well… I’m glad your lady yielded as well. Thank you, for the soup. And the bread recommendation.”

“Any time, ya Grace.”

_ Another one down. _

Daenerys smiled at the old woman and headed to her chambers. Jon had a meeting with the masons about the repairs so tonight she would be dining alone. Just as she sat down though there was a knock at the door.

“Pardon me for interrupting your supper, Your Grace,” Tyrion said when she answered. “But might I have a word with you?”

“Of course.”

She shut the door behind him and motioned to the chair but he stood standing. He looked haggard and tired. Like he had aged ten years since she saw him that afternoon and he encouraged her to force Sansa to yield. She had taken his advice, but just went about it a little differently.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, taking a bite of soup and biting back a moan. Arya hadn’t been kidding, this  **_was_ ** good. 

“Not in the least, Your Grace,” he muttered. Daenerys’ face fell, and the bite she just took turned to lead in her stomach.

“What happened?”

“You no longer need to worry about taking Cersei alive.”

“What?”

“And I’m afraid that your idea to use Jaime’s son as a hostage is null and void as well.”

“Why? What happened?” she demanded.

“Cersei lost the baby.”

Daenerys’ face fell, and waves of pity and sympathy washed over her in crashing waves. Even if Cersei was her enemy, no woman deserved to go through that. “Tyrion I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

“I’m okay, I suppose,” he settled on.

“And your brother?”

“Jaime is heartbroken, devastated… He really thought he would be able to be a real father to this one.”

“Do you think this might push him back to her?”

“I don’t know,” the dwarf answered honestly. “He wasn’t there to help her, he wasn’t there to support her… I know he loves Brienne, and I truly believe he is done with our sister romantically but guilt can be a very dangerous and confusing thing, especially for a grieving father.”

She nodded slowly. “Offer Ser Jaime my sympathies, but keep an eye on him. He knows too much about our armies to be able to go back to her.”

“I will, your Grace.”

“And tell Varys thank you for the intel. It’s inhumanely tragic what she went through but at least now we know we don’t have to be as careful.”

“It wasn’t Varys who found out about this, your Grace.”

“Then who-?”

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater came north.”

“Is he one of our spies?”

“Not in a manner of speaking.” Tyrion gnawed at his lip. “He’s supposed to be my assassin, actually.”

Daenerys blinked. “Excuse me?”

Tyrion finally took a seat opposite her. “Actually that wouldn't be TECHNICALLY true. He’s to be mine, Sansa, yours and Brienne’s assassin. It seems my darling sister isn’t sure if it was you and I or Sansa and Brienne who coordinated to murder her baby. He was supposed to kidnap my brother and drag him back to her to face the ultimate punishment of leaving her alone.”

“... I assume after learning this information, you had him thrown into a dungeon and you’re telling me this because you want to schedule an execution?”

“Ser Bronn is the most cut throat, self centered bastard you’ll ever meet,” Tyrion said. “He’s also my best friend and the reason me and my brother are alive. His loyalty is very easily bought though, and I have. Bought it, I mean. But I would need your permission to pay him double the reward that Cersei offered.”

“You want my permission to double the payment he accepted to kill us?”

“Oh not to worry, he never would have tried to kill you, he admitted he was not even going to try.”

“How comforting,” she said dryly. 

“He can be a great asset to the team,” the dwarf argued. “He is a great fighter, he was the one who shot the scorpion that took down Drogon.”

“ _ He what?” _

“We were at war, Your Grace,” Tyrion reminded her quickly. “Just as it was fair for you to use your dragons it was fair for them to try to take them out.”

“Drogon is my  _ child _ !”

Tyrion gave her a humorless smile. “If it were another dragon he shot at would you object this strongly? Would you think him unfair, unkind or unwise because of his choice?”

She glared but stayed silent, hating that Tyrion was correct, hating that she knew it wouldn't be right to condemn a man for an act he did in war. Dragons changed the game of warfare, the scorpions were the answer to them.

“He has also excelled in every position I’ve promoted him too,” Tyrion continued when he realized she wouldn't be arguing the point any further. “As crazy as I realize this sounds, I trust him with my secrets, political and personal. Bronn would kill me and leave me to rot if I wasn’t paying him, but he would not sell me out. He has no loyalty to anything but gold, me and Jaime… somewhat.”

Daenerys sighed and rubbed her temples. “I need to trust the people my people swear by,” she grumbled to herself before she turned unamused to the dwarf. “I will not execute your man.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. But on the matter of payment-.”

“Yes yes, give him whatever gold you promised, you have my permission.”

“The payment wasn’t gold. My sister promised him Riverrun.”

“Riverrun? The Tully’s keep?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Lord Edmure will be given back the son and will be the new Lord of the Crossing, the second most powerful house in the Riverlands, and Bronn will be given Riverrun along with command of all the Riverlands.”

“Do you think they’ll support that?” Daenerys asked. “Bronn is not of the Riverlands is he?” That had been why she gave the Stormlands to the Tarths and the North to Jorah. They may not have been Great Lords but they were a proud house from their individual regions. Not to mention… “Sansa won’t stand for her families Keep being uprooted again. Even if we do give them Riverrun, she’ll raise holy hell and object, she would-... what?” she asked, when she saw him smirking. “Tyrion, what did you do?”

“I made a proposal that settles all of your problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“I get Sansa out of the North and out of power and I keep Bronn on our side and keep him from killing us.”

“How?”

“I proposed a marriage contract between the Lady of Winterfell and Ser Bronn of the. Blackwater.”

Her violet eyes went wide with shock, and her jaw dropped to the floor. “You… you did what?”

“Sansa wouldn’t have nearly as much power in the North as she would in the Riverlands, but being the granddaughter of Hoster Tully will make her revered enough that it will help the lords and small folk accept Bronn.”

“She’s a child!” Daenerys cried. “And I remember Bronn, the man's older than you Tyrion!”

“Not by much. Plus she’s twenty and one, which is older than you were when you married Drogo.”

“I will not force her to marry for politics again,” Daenerys barked. “She was forced twice, she will not be forced a third. Not Sansa or any other woman, I don’t care how much they dislike me.”

“Technically you can’t. Kings and queens can  _ strongly _ encourage, but no man can compel another man to marry before they’re legally betrothed. But Sansa wouldn’t be the first young girl pushed into a marriage with an older man. At least this one is taller than her,” he grumbled. “And he promised to treat her with respect .”

“The answer is no.” Her voice was sharp, her glare sharper, but he was not deterred. 

“You are letting your personal history get in the way of a solid match that any other monarch would make,” Tyrion argued. “This works out well for everyone involved, including Sansa. You get her out of power in the North, Bronn gets to be the Lord of the Riverlands, and Sansa gets to belong to a powerful and Great House again, even if her individual power is lessened. Besides it’s not as though I’m even giving her away to some random house in the Westerlands, she’ll be ruling her mothers castle, her mother’s lands.”

The idea sounded good. More than that the idea sounded clever. But Bronn was old, and Sansa was young, who dreamed of a fairytale still. You do not get fairytales with men old enough to be your father..

“I told you I will not force her,” Daenerys argued, hating how even Tyrion could tell she was waning in her decision judging by his smile.

“Did anyone force you to marry Hizdahr zo Loraq? Or did you do it because you knew it was best for your city and your people?”

“And Sansa marrying an old man is what’s best for people?”

“Considering the man has never ruled over anything bigger than the city watch, yes. She can help him rule, she can feel important. This is Westeros, Your Grace. Highborns are born with wealth and power. They’re given the finest jewels and the best servants and get to fuck the prettiest whores, and have the knowledge engraved in us since birth that we are better than the lowborn we rule, and that goes double if you’re part of a Great House. But in order to have all of that, we must give away the one thing the lowborn and common folk can do without issue, without starting wars, without insulting another house… they get to marry for love, while by and large the nobility does not. That’s the sacrifice we’re forced to make. It’s the same sacrifice you made twice.”

“I don’t want  _ anyone  _ to be forced to make that sacrifice. I want Sansa happy, even if she despises me.” She shakes head. “It’s not fair. I found love with Jon, your brother found love with Brienne… That’s how it should be.”

Tyrion reached out and took hold of her hand. “My brother loving my sister caused the War of the Five Kings. Jon loving you and giving you the North is causing the mess we’re in, and Gods forbid Cersei finds out about Jaime and his knight or else they both would have wished Brienne merely burned alive. That’s what happens when Highborns try to find love on their own. Innocent people end up hurt, they end up murdered, they end up… they end up abused and tormented and raped.” For some unexplained reason tears rushed to Tyrion’s eyes, tears that he quickly tried to blink away to no avail . “This is a smart move, your Grace,” he sniffed. “You know it is.”

Daenerys sighed and stood from her seat and looked out the window at the vast snowy field before her. She remembered when she was urged to reopen the fighting pits, a practice she loathed and despised. But she did it anyway, for the men who wanted to fight for glory and because it was the traditions of the city she ruled, and it helped keep her children from dying, even if some needed to be sacrificed.

“I will not compel her,” Daenerys said again, without turning back to the dwarf. “But… you may ask Sansa for her consent. If she refuses that is the end of it. You hear me? You have one chance, if she says no that is the end of this union, do you understand me? You find another way to keep Bronn from killing you, one that does not involve a young girl marrying a man twice her age against her will. If you need to execute him to make that happen then so be it.” 


	27. Chapter 27

The crypts had been a mess of things after the battle. The dead left large gaping holes where the kings and lords rose that remained empty afterwards, claw marks gouged the walls, statues were toppled over, rusted iron swords laid on the floors… There had been far too many corpses, one indistinguishable from the other, and they hadn’t bothered trying to sort out the noble from the rabble much less determine which king had been buried where.

But Sansa and Arya and Bran did their best to fix it. Clearing out the destroyed statues, filling back in the holes, carrying out the remains so they could be burned… Sansa and Jon didn’t speak except to mutter instructions to one another. Arya tried to encourage conversation but it went nowhere and eventually she gave up. Many Northmen volunteered to help clean the crypts but all three of them declined. The crypts were the Starks' responsibility, no one else’s. It would be their resting place one day, they would be the ones tasked to clean it up. 

Ned Stark's statue hadn’t been too badly damaged, not compared to some of the others at least. His nose had fallen off, his jaw had cracked and his left arm was gone but at least he still stood tall and proud. More than that, Sansa made sure the blackened and burnt remains were buried in his grave again. She would not let her father be burned indiscriminately with the rest of her ancestors. 

It had been the first time since the battle that Sansa found herself in the crypts since that first day where she spent her time cleaning rather than praying but now she was kneeling in front of his statue, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry I made a mess of things. I tried to help and I messed everything up.” She wiped away her tears only to have more stream down her porcelain cheeks. “I lost the North. For 8,000 years the Starks held the North and I lost it in a week after meeting the dragon queen.”

She let out a sob and bowed her head. Even cracked and unfamiliar and broken it was still the face of her father and the guilt was overwhelming her.

“I want you here,” Sansa begged. “I want you and Mother and Robb to tell me what to do, I want you to tell me how I can fix this.”

But asking for their guidance was hopeless. They were all dead and rotted. Sansa didn’t even have Lady to hug and nuzzle and make her feel better. Prayer was useless, she had decided long ago. If either the Seven Gods or the Old Gods were real, why had they allowed so much turmoil to come to her family? Why had they allowed so much pain to come to the Starks? The Gods were nothing but stories for children, and Sansa was not a child any longer. 

But even still she came to the crypts and the Godswood, hoping to hear them, hoping to see a sign. Instead all she heard was water from above dripping on the stone floor. Sanss sighed and climbed to her feet when she realized she may as well have been speaking to the mortar that made up the castle. Savoring his broken face for one more moment Sansa left the crypts to the few dead still homed there. The moon was bright and full and beautiful and a million stars painted the skies. A million white lights against a thick black blanket, and she took a moment to savor the beauty. 

Her father told her once that when she was little the stars were all the fallen kings and the world's greatest heroes. Sansa asked if he thought he would be there someday. He laughed, and said you had to be REALLY heroic for the Gods to give you that particular honor. Their father was heroic enough, she told herself stubbornly as she stared up at the stars. He had to have been, Sansa didn’t know a worthier man except maybe Robb. 

She took one final moment to adore the tiny lights before she headed back into the Keep and into the kitchens. Even in her melancholy and misery she could always find comfort in a nice hot bowl of onion soup. In Kings Landing she asked the cooks once to make her a pot but they laughed at her. They served food fit for royalty in the Red Keep, the main kitchen wench told her, not some meager peasant dish. 

Sansa wasn’t really in a mood to eat in the Great Hall. It had gotten much too crowded and loud of late. While she wasn’t opposed to all the noise in general, it did grate on oneself after a little while. 

“Have a bowl of soup sent up to my chambers, please,” she asked one of the serving girls who did a small little curtsy and promised she would follow through. As she was walking up the several flights of stairs to her room Sansa spotted a familiar tall figure. 

“Brienne!” Sansa cried happily. The Maester said there had been no serious damage but even still it made her feel relieved she was already up and walking around a day after.

Her sworn sword turned, bowing her head with a rather cordial greeting, two bowls of soul in hand. “My Lady. Is everything alright?”

Her armor she wore was a far cry from the beautiful blue suit she usually donned. It amounted to little more than mismatched and ill fitting odd pieces pilfered from the Winterfell armory,, bits and bobbles of the pink and azure armor of her house and Sansa even spotted a golden lion roaring in triumph on her elbows pads.

Another wave of guilt crashed down on her. Sansa knew how much that armor meant to Brienne. It had been a gift from Ser Jaime, she explained early in their relationship, before they even reached the wall. It was the first, and only, time Sansa ever saw her smile. “Was your armor that far gone?” Brienne nodded. “I’m so sorry. I’ll have Mikken make you a new proper set tomorrow.”

“Oh, oh no thank you, My Lady, I’m fine. Ser Jaime promised to get it repaired at Kingslanding when all this is said and done.”

Sansa furrowed her brow. “Well if you don’t want a new set, why can’t you get it fixed here in Winterfell? I mean who knows how long the war could last.”

“It’s rather badly damaged, My Lady, I doubt even the smiths at Kingslanding will be able to help it.”

“Mikken is just as good as any smith from the capital,” she challenged. “You had Podricks sword made here.”

It had been a small one, with a long white grip and a round pommel that was white on one side, purple on the other and two real gold coins inlaid on either side. A reward, Brienne told him when she presented it to him, for being such a good squire all these years and helping get Sansa home. Podrick had blushed and beamed and stammered a tearful thank you and named it ‘Sunbane’, after the woman he served.

“I have no doubt of that, My Lady,” Brienne said quickly, a blush stealing up her cheeks. “I have nothing against the smiths here, It’s just what Ser Jaime offered.”

“Well I’m offering to get it fixed now instead of at the end of a war.” Sansa didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but she didn’t like that Brienne was already thinking and talking about leaving the North. “Consider it part of my apology. I’ll have Makker get started on it first thing tomorrow morning,” she said, letting her sworn sword know that it would be happening whether she wanted it done or not.

Brienne looked like she wanted to argue some more, but instead she just muttered her thanks. Sansa tried not to linger on how ungrateful the thanks sounded and smiled at the tall blonde, though it was far more muted. “Now; would you care to dine with me this evening?”

“I would but Ser Jaime learned some rather distressing news last night and I want to be there with him, if that’s alright. I’m going to be supping with him tonight.”

_Please let Cersei be dead._

“What was the news?” 

“I’m afraid it’s not my place to say, My Lady,” she said rather apologetically. “It’s a personal issue.”

“Is it about Cersei?”

“It’s really not my place to speak about it,” Brienne answered, firmer this time. “I do not think he’s up for other visitors though or else I’d invite you to come and dine with us though.”

Sansa pursed her lips. “I didn’t realize you were in the habit of keeping secrets from me, Brienne. Does this secret you’re guarding so closely have something to do with the war effort? Or something to do with Winterfell? If it does, you-.”

“It’s a personal secret of Ser Jaime’s, My Lady, it does not involve you or the war or your family or else you would have been the first to know.” Her words were sharp as steel, and they took the redhead back. “You have always trusted me, without hesitation, and I have kept your secrets heavily guarded. It is a personal issue that Ser Jaime is going through, one I would keep secret for you or anyone else were it to happen to them. After the other night I would hope you would know that you could always trust me implicitly, and when I say things like it is not my place to tell someone something, trust that it is for a good reason.”

Sansa swallowed hard. Brienne had never spoken to her like that before, she’d never so much as raised her voice at her. She didn’t even look bad about it afterwards… 

“Will that be all, My Lady?” Brienne asked, her voice still as sharp as the steel she carried. Sansa didn’t reply and merely just nodded. With a jerky bow of the head the tall blonde turned and headed up the stairs and leaving Sansa alone and to her own devices. 

She felt tears welling in her eyes and she quickly blinked them away. Sansa DID trust Brienne, more than anyone outside her family. She knew if her home or herself or her family was in danger Brienne would protect her. It wasn’t just a fool's hope, it was an irredeemable fact. But his mistrust was driving her away, she knew that. And one day soon if Sansa wasn’t careful she would wake up and her blonde shadow, her protector, her friend would be gone…

All of a sudden Sansa didn’t want to eat alone, or even with only one person. She wanted it to be like it was when her family was alive and whole, when they all sat at the head table, even Jon, and they laughed and talked, and hosted Lords and Ladies from all over the North. Arya would annoy her by throwing food and purposely making a mess of her dress and Robb would rush in to save her by carting the younger girl off to bed. Jon, Bran and Rickon would laugh at Sansa’s distress and their father would always bite back a grin as he chastised the youngest girl while their mother would threaten Arya with punishment that never seemed to have any effect.

One day, when she wore a gown she worked tirelessly on for weeks, as close to a real southern dress as an thirteen year old could make. Looking back now it was wretchedly hideous but still, it had been an intensive labor and when Arya threw an orange at her, the juice staining the fabric, she knew would not come out. Sansa didn’t yell or throw a fit as she normally did, she just started crying and ran from the table. She had been so excited to show it off and now it was ruined. There were no bitten back smiles or laughs from her brothers then. 

A little while later her mother came to her room and wrapped Sansa in her arms and kissed the top of her head, promising to buy her a new dress. Not one of the plain old boring northern ones that Sansa had despised, but a REAL southern style gown, all the way from Riverrun, and when it arrived it was the most beautiful thing Sansa had ever seen. When she wore it Arya didn’t act her usual bratty self but instead she just told her sister how pretty she looked.

That had been the dress Joffrey tore off her in the throne room while he aimed a crossbow at her. He didn’t know the history of that particular gown, he couldn’t have, which is what made the action even more cruel than it was on the surface. The king found extra ways to hurt her even if he didn’t realize it.

Sansa shook the memories of that day away. If anything, being hit a few times and stripped in front of the court was mild to the evils that would be done to her a few years later. She headed back to the kitchens and told them to just give her the soup now wreathed than bring it up to her, and went into the crowded hall. The high table was empty and the smaller tables were full and bustling, from the Northmen to the Knights of the Vale, the Tarth soldiers, the Unsullied, and the Wildlings who were getting along incredibly well with the Dothraki despite the language barrier. Apparently the language of drinking and fucking and hating perfumed lords was rather universal. 

Samsa looked around at the tables frowning until she saw who she was looking for. She made her way over to the long table, her heart slamming against her chest as she neared the group of pirates and reavers. 

“Then I tell the bastard,” one of the Ironborn said laughing. Theon sat at the edge of the table looking on amused. “I said ‘Captain Tommen maybe you were a good reaver once, but House Arrowhead will utterly destroy you if you go up against them in battle’. The smug cunt was too old to be going up against a warship like that but Tommen didn’t listen. It was such a humiliating loss that the old man was shamed into never sailing the seas again.”

“I never liked the arrogant prick,” another reaver with a patch over his eye and a wooden peg where a leg once was spat. “I was almost glad to see Lord Reid decimate him.”

Sansa approached the table and looked at Theon, who immediately smiled and ordered his men to make room for the redhead. “Thank you,” she told him as she sat down beside him.

“You’re welcome, My Lady.” He quirked his head as he looked at her. “Are you alright?”

“Of course. Why?”

“You look sad.”

Sansa shook her head and forced a smile she was hoping he wouldn’t see through. “It’s nothing, just remembering some of the memories here.”

“Mmm. There were quite a few good ones.” Theon smiled, and then he was laughing. “Do you remember the time Robb and I switched out all the salt in the kitchens with sugar?”

“Yes!” Sansa laughed. “Mother was FURIOUS!”

“I think when she started yelling was the first time I saw your brother terrified.”

“You two are lucky she didn’t cuff you.”

“Oh Catelyn wanted to.” Theon grinned. “We were just too fast for her to catch us.”

Sansa laughed again and took a big spoonful of soup. “I remember once how excited you were when House Manderly brought fish from White Harbour. I’ve never seen a man eat so much.” 

“Gods, yes! Don’t get me wrong I love Northern cuisine but nothing beats a good fish chowder from the islands. The closest thing you have to water is the snow when it melts.”

Sansa smiled at him, taking another spoonful of soup. “Tell me about them.”

“What?”

“The iron islands. Tell me about the beaches.”

Theon was rather lost at words for a moment. He took a long drink of ale for a moment before he cleared his throat. “Well they… alright, you’ve heard Brienne talk about Tarth right? The white sandy beaches, the crystal clear bright blue water, the tall palm trees, the sun shining all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Now imagine the exact opposite and you’ll have the Iron Islands.” Sansa laughed and the sound seemed to put him far more at ease. “They’re cold, hard, rocky… The rocks jut out of the water fifty feet high, there’s driftwood and seaweed as far as the island can see, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a single day of sunshine in… Gods, I don’t think the islands have _ever_ seen sunshine. But it’s kind of beautiful, in a dark, weird sort of way.”

Sansa pictured it in her mind. The gray rocks, the dark sands, the heavy overcast, the deep brown driftwood… He was right, if her imagination was any indication of the islands, it was oddly beautiful. 

“I would like to see it someday,” she mused, more to herself then to Theon, but he heard it all the same.

“You-... you would?”

“You’ve lived in my home for years, I think it only fair that I get to visit yours at least once.”

His lips turned up into a soft smile and she felt her heart do a small little flutter. Something she hadn’t felt in years, not since Loras. Of course looking back it was rather obvious about his preferences but even still, at one time he made her feel the same warm girlish feeling Theon was making her feel now.

“Lady Sansa.” Sansa turned and saw Tyrion standing beside her. “I was wondering if I might have a word alone with you in private?”

“She’s in the middle of her supper right now,” Theon protested.

Sansa waved him off. “It’s fine.” She turned back to the Iron Islander. “I’ll be back later,” she said, sealing the promise with a smile before she grabbed her soup and rose, leading Tyrion to her chambers. 

“Is something the matter?” she asked as she sat down at her table. 

“No, no it’s fine. But how are you doing with… everything?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I’m glad Brienne made it out alive but…” She left the rest unsaid, remembering just who he served. “I’m grateful the queen allowed me to yield.”

There. An acknowledgment of her title and nothing negative that he could report back to Daenerys.

“As am I, for my brothers sake if anything. I don’t know if he could have handled any more losses. Tyrion looked crestfallen at the statement, and when Sansa asked him what was the matter he took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “Well, you’re going to find out sooner or later anyway,” he muttered. “Cersei was pregnant,” he explained, “and we just learned the other night that she lost the baby.”

That must have been Jaime’s secret Brienne was guarding so intently. Sansa felt a rush of guilt for trying to pry it out of her. No wonder she was so short with her...

“Tyrion, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. It’s strange how you can grieve for someone you never even met but… I’ll be alright, I suppose.”

“How is Ser Jaime faring?”

“He’s devastated, heartbroken, confused, guilty…”

“Do you think he’s going to go back to Cersei?”

“I don’t know.” 

Sansa just nodded slowly. “I’m so sorry this happened. For everything Cersei is, she loved her children.”

“Enough that this turned her mad.”

“What do you mean?”

Tyrion took a seat opposite her. “She can’t accept that this was some tragic natural thing. Cersei thinks she was poisoned, either by me and Daenerys or you and Brienne.”

“No! No, I- I would NEVER-! And Brienne DEFINITELY-!”

Tyrion raised a hand to urge silence. “I know, I know… This is just what she thinks.”

“How do you know this is what she thinks?” Sansa demanded. “Did she send a raven?”

“A hit man, actually.” 

Her jaw dropped to the floor and her eyes went wide. “A _what?”_

“Cersei sent an assassin to take out the four of us and drag Jaime back to her.”

She swallowed hard and clutched her table so hard with any more strength it would have been decimated. Cersei managed to get her men to Winterfell, to Sansa's _home_. It felt frightening and violating… “Did… did we stop him? Who was it, one of the Lannister men?”

“Do you remember Bronn?”

She _did_ remember Bronn. The scraggly old crass cutthroat who always hung around the dwarf. “Bronn… he was your friend, wasn’t he? That’s who Cersei sent?”

“Yes. But he did the right thing, he came to me and told me what he did rather than follow through with it.”

She smiled and felt an air of relief, and then she laughed. Cersei would be idiotic enough to send the best friend of one of her targets to do the deed. “Good! I’m glad your friend has honor, Lord Tyrion.”

He grimaced and poured himself a cup of wine. “Yes well…. the problem is my sister promised Bronn Riverrun and all the Riverlands to do the deed.”

“No!” she cried, loudly. “The Riverlands belong to the Tullys! Riverrun belongs to my uncle! After all he’s been through-!”

“I absolutely agree, Lady Sansa,” he told her gently. “Riverrun should stay in the Tully bloodline, the Riverlands belong to them. The Queen believes this as well.”

“So then you told him no? You told him he couldn’t have it, right?”

He gnawed at his lip. “He came to me at _great_ personal risk, Sansa. If Cersei gets word that he betrayed him then he’s at immense danger, you know this. So, in honor of his courage, I told him that he was allowed to keep the Riverlands.”

“Tyrion!”

“But Riverrun and the Riverlands will not fall out of your family’s hands,” he added quickly. “Nor will your uncle go unrewarded, he will be given the twins.”

“How?” she demanded, trying to keep the tears from falling. One half of her family lost the North and now it looked like the other half was about to lose their land as well. “How can the Tullys still hold onto the Riverlands and Riverrun if Bronn is Lord over them?”

“I… I made him a deal.”

“What kind of a deal?”

“A- a marriage pact,” he said, clearing his throat and taking a long drink of wine. “He will agree to take the name Tully, if the eldest granddaughter of Hoster Tully-.”

“No.”

“Agreed to a betrothal between them-.”

“No!”

“And that way the bloodline would stay in your mothers family, Sansa.”

“NO!” 

She stood from her chair so quickly it fell backwards, tears streaming down her face. “No! No, you can’t make me! I can’t do this, not again!”

“Sansa, listen to me. This is the best thing for you and the man who chose to risk Cersei’s wrath all so your life would be spared. Your mothers people will not accept him without you, and you will be the Lady of the Riverlands, you will have power and influence, you-.”

“I don’t care!” A sop ripped past her lips that she couldn’t be bothered to hide. “I don’t want to marry someone for politics again, Tyrion please!”

“Sansa-.”

_“PLEASE!”_

Tyrion stood and took hold of her hands. “I know you’re upset, and I understand why. But this is really the best thing for you, Sansa. The men there won’t listen to Bronn, but they WILL listen to you. You would be in power again, you would control one of the most valuable spots when it comes to war. The queen was **_very_ ** reluctant to let you have this power but I convinced her-.”

“Daenerys signed off on this?” Sansa demanded, yanking her hands away. “Did the queen order this?”

Tyrion worried at his lip for a moment. “Yes, and Sansa, you KNOW what will happen if you go against her, if you disobey… She won’t show you mercy again. You’re better off just agreeing to the marriage and using it to your advantage.”

Sansa turned on her heel and stormed out of her room, Tyrion following. “What are you doing?” he demanded, an edge of fright in his voice as she climbed the stairs and stormed down the hall, her tears half blinding her. “Sansa, you cannot-!”

“ **STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!** ” He took a hasty step back as she rounded on him. “I am TIRED of Lannisters ordering me around! You, your sister, your brother, your nephew…! Just STOP!”

She whipped back around and raced up the rest of the steps, her long legs carrying her far faster than Tyrion could have ever hoped to keep up with until she arrived at the Lords chambers where Daenerys and Jon were sleeping in. She didn’t bother knocking and instead just stormed in.

Daenerys and Gray Worm were at the table and he stood quickly as Sansa stormed over to the queen, tears and rage blinding her to logic and reason.

“Far enough, Stark,” he warned, blocking her from getting any closer to the stunned queen with one hand while the other closed around the hilt of his shortsword. 

“You think you can sell me to a cutthroat like some broodmare?!” Sansa yelled. Tears were streaming down her face but she did not care about appearing weak in front of her or anyone else right now. “I won’t have it! Do you hear me? I will not! I don’t care if you order me, I don’t care if you take away Riverrun from my family, I don’t care if you burn me for this, I will NOT marry Bronn! I will not do this again!”

The shock faded from her face, and confusion replaced it. “You think I ordered this?”

“Tyrion said you did!”

Fire and blood flashed in her violet eyes but Sansa forced herself to remain standing and steady and not flinch. The queen turned to her unsullied. “Leave us.” 

He looked reluctant but he didn’t protest. He nodded and walked away, closing the door behind him but that was where his footsteps stopped.

Daenerys poured them each a glass of wine and took a deep breath. “I did not order any marriage.”

“Liar!” Sansa shouted. Tyrion told-!”

“I forgive your initial outrage but you WILL remember who it is you’re speaking to and keep your voice at a reasonable level,” Daenerys ordered, and Sansa choked back the rest of her statement. She handed the redhead a glass of wine and motioned to the chair opposite her. “Now, CALMLY, tell me what it was Tyrion said, exactly.”

Sansa took a deep breath and took a drink of wine, her hand shaking. _Mother would be humiliated at the way you’re behaving,_ she told herself, a way to keep her temper steady. “I asked if you signed on the marriage pact and if it was an order you were giving, he said it was.”

“He’s lying,” she said sternly. “I actually forbade the marriage pact when he brought the idea to me.” Sansa scoffed, quickly shutting her mouth at the cross glare the queen gave. “I did. I told him he was free to approach you and ASK if this was something you would be interested in, but if you refused, even once, to come up with a new way to keep the man from killing us.”

“No… no, Tyrion told me it was a reward for coming to him rather than acting on it.”

“That is not at all what he told me. He said he wanted a grander reward than Riverrun, Tyrion offered you up as a bargaining chip, you for their lives.”

Sansa remembered Bronn cleared now, an opportunist, Tyrion called him once. The idea he would go against Cersei just for honor aHow could she have been so stupid? She let herself trust him just because he was kind to her.

“Why didn’t he just have him executed? If he threatened to kill us-?”

“I think the explanation is as simple as Bronn is his friend and he didn’t want his friend to die,” Daenerys offered. “Not everything is an act in a larger play. You yielded solely to save Brienne, yes? There were no schemes or plots behind that decision, right?”

Sansa nodded. “I just wanted to protect her.”

“And you did. Just like I want to protect my people. _All_ of my people, even those who do not want my protection.” Daenerys leaned closer. “Tell me now, and tell it true… do you want to marry Bronn?”

“Tyrion he-... he said, if-... he is a very good salesman but I-.”

“I don’t care what he made it seem like, yes or no. And before you decide, know that I have NO intention in taking the Riverlands away from the Tullys. That was a discussion that took place solely with him and Cersei, I would be _honored_ if a House as noble and honorable as the Tullys continued to rule the Riverlands.”

Sansa shook her head, bowing her head. “I don’t want to marry him,” she said in a small soft voice. 

“Then you won’t,” Daenerys said, her voice and will as hard as iron. For half a moment Sansa was reminded of her mother. “I don’t care about all the privileges the noble have, this is one sacrifice I refuse to force people to comply with.” Sansa wasn’t sure what Daenerys was talking about. All she knew was it didn’t sound like she would be forced to wed. The redhead felt a rush of grateful tears that she quickly wiped away. 

Daenerys reached out and rested her hand over hers. Sansa didn’t pull away this time. “I will handle Tyrion, and his friend.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“I do not ask for your thanks, Lady Sansa. Not for this. You aren’t the only one who’s been forced to wed.” Sansa nodded in understanding. The Queen gave her a soft smile. “Who do YOU want to be with?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered. “I’ve known since I was a babe any marriage will just be a way for another house to gain armies or power. I just didn’t want it to be with someone old or dishonorable, nor did I want my uncle to lose his titles.”

“Forget about that for a moment, Lady Sansa. For once, choose something that would make you happy and ignore all other advantages or disadvantages. Don’t think about what would further your line or your power or something you could chalk up to a ‘win.” Daenerys leaned in closer. “With no regards to lines or houses or anything else… Who do you want to be with? What do you want? When you think of happiness, what is the first name you think of?”

… 

“Lady Sansa,” Theon greeted the woman’s frantic knocking with a curiosity in his voice. “Is everything alri-?”

Sansa wasted no more time on words, she wasted no more time or anything else. She grabbed him by the jerkin and pulled him to her, kissing him, the first kiss she ever truly wanted. Theon stood frozen for a long moment before she pulled away, staring at each other with wide eyes. She started to stammer out an apology but then he grabbed her face and was kissing her, and Sansa melted into the kiss as she draped her arms around his neck. It was a world away from what she thought a kiss could be. It was something out of a dream, or one of her favorite songs from childhood. He held her by the hips and he was strong and gentle and beautiful and wonderful… 

“Wait,” Theon breathed against her lips. “Sansa… Sansa, I can’t-.”

“I don’t care-,” she muttered, kissing him again. “I don’t care about anything but you.” She finally pulled away and stared into his dark eyes that were so brown they were nearly back. She ran her hands through his curls. “You make me happy. That is all I care about right now.”

He took her hand in hers, gently running his thumb over hers. Tears filled his eyes. “Your line,” Theon whispered, his voice pained. “If you’re with me it ends. Your fathers name, your House-.”

“Can be carried on by my sister just as easily as me. I just want you,” she whispered, pressing her lips against his. He melted into her kiss, and when her hands came up to unlace his shirt he let her. She worked deftly, fingers trembling only slightly as she pulled off his shirt. His whole chest was covered in long scars, some earned in battle, most earned elsewhere. Sansa ran her hands over his scars slowly, before she reached for his trousers. 

Theon grabbed her hands. “Please,” he begged, tears in his eyes. “Sansa…”

Sansa looked up at his face and reached up and wiped away the tears with a brush of her thumb before she turned her back on him and began to unlace her corset. She let it drop to the floor and with a deep breath she grabbed the white silk small clothes and lifted it over her head and let it fall as well. Theon took a sharp breath and she closed her eyes, knowing what he was seeing, and tears fell down her porcelain skin. 

From the bottom of her neck to the top of her thighs was an ugly map of raised scars from a whip, long jagged cuts, and a pattern of burns that formed an obscene ‘B’ on her skin. Not an inch of skin was smooth and soft or beautiful any longer.

“I wanted to kill him,” Theon told her in a whisper she could barely hear, as though even after all this time he was afraid of speaking ill of him. “Deep down, under everything, I wanted to kill him everytime he touched you.”

“I know.” She turned around to face him. His eyes were drawn to her breasts and the tiny cuts and burns that covered them. “Let me see you,” she whispered. “Please.” 

There was a long stretch of silence before he reached for his britches with shaking hands, lowering his trousers and immediately looked away. Sansa swallowed hard as she looked at him, feeling pity for the man standing before her and disgust for the beast whose ashes were dumped into the levy after his dogs were done with him. 

After a moment Sansa took his face in her hands and turned him back to face her. She pressed another kiss to his lips until the tension left his body and was kissing her back, and wrapped her in his arms. She lowered her skirts, stepping out of them and draping her arms around his shoulders, moaning and kissing and holding one another until they lowered themselves onto his bed gazing into one another’s eyes. He brushed the long red hair from her face and pulled her face to his, kissing her until she moaned. A fire stirred in her belly as his fingers danced across her breasts and the pale pink nipple. 

“We don’t have to do this,” he breathed, burying his lips in the crook of her neck. 

“I know,” Sansa breathed. She pressed herself up against him and brought his hand between her legs. “But I want to…”


	28. Chapter 28

**Daenerys**

“So… you’re not angry with me?”

Daenerys smiled at her former hand. “Of course not, Lord Tyrion. You did what you thought was right.” 

He let out a sigh of relief and raised his glass of wine. “To doing what needs to be done,” he offered.

Daenerys lifted hers in return, saying nothing and taking a long drink of the sweet red vintage. He missed how she didn’t take her eyes off him for even a moment. 

She put the glass back on her table and folded her hands in her lap. “Of course, you do realize that even if I understand why you needed to lie, I couldn’t force Sansa to wed. When the Lady of Winterfell protests THAT adamantly… Plus forcing Jon’s sister to wed would do nothing but turn him against me.”

“I understand completely, Your Grace.”

“Do you?” Daenerys smiled. “Good. But I did think about what you said, and you did make some very valid points. The Highborn of Westeros are given whatever their hearts desire, wealth, castles, lands, titles… It would be unfair not to ask them for this small sacrifice of marrying for politics rather than love. I’ve done it twice, Lady Sansa done it twice, others can go through it once.”

Tyrion nodded in agreement. “I am completely on your side, Your Grace.” 

“And the argument you made to Sansa rings true, Bronn should be rewarded for going to you rather than doing the deed, even if it was just opportunistic in nature. Of course the Riverlands are out, I’m sure you understand why. As you said they’d never accept him without Tully blood on his arm. I’d be willing to bet the Stormlands will accept him though.”

Tyrion furrowed his brow. “But you just gave the Stormlands to-.”

“Lord Selwyn, yes, and the Evenstar had a perfectly eligible daughter, does he not?”

Daenerys sipped her wine as she watched his expression. A melody of emotions played across his face as he stammered out an inarticulate jumble of syllables, trying to prove why she shouldn’t give Brienne to Bronn.

“Is it a problem that Brienne is no longer Maiden?” she asked, feigning innocence. “I wouldn’t think Lord Bronn would have a problem with that.”

“But, she… you- Your Grace, my brother!” he finally managed to spit out. Daenerys forced her rage to stay hidden for now. Of course he would think about what his brother would be losing first rather than what Brienne would be forced into. “He and Lady Brienne, they’re-!”

“They are not legally betrothed, correct?”

“No but-!”

“Then forgive me, Lord Tyrion, I do not see the problem with this plan.”

“You cannot take Jaime’s happiness away from him!” he cried. “He just lost a child, don’t make him lose his lover too! And Brienne is FAR too honorable for a man like Bronn!”

“As far as my knowledge of Westeros customs go, neither one of them should be ‘lovers’ before they’re married. If anything I’m saving them both from the humiliation of being unwed and together. Regarding her honor I’m not asking her to give up her ideals, I’m just asking to share her name with her Lord husband. Lady Brienne will marry Ser Bronn-.”

“Your Grace-!”

“- and I’m unsure who could marry Ser Jaime,” she mused, “but I’m sure some noblewoman out there would give their right hand to marry into the Lannister fortune.”

Daenerys watched the helplessness and despair dance across his face. She took another sip of wine. “I don’t understand the protests, Lord Tyrion,” she said after she swallowed. “You wanted your man rewarded, and as a way to prevent him from killing us. I can think of no greater gift than the Stormlands with a wife.”

“Your Grace, _please!_ ”

“Or did you only want Bronn to take a wife when it was someone else’s happiness and dreams being destroyed rather than your own families?”

The desperate grief was replaced by confusion and puzzlement. “I’m… I’m sorry, Your Grace?”

“What exactly are you sorry for, Lord Tyrion?” she spat. The fire and blood inside her was simmering and soon enough it would boil over. She did not try to contain it. “For trying to force a young woman into marrying a cut throat old enough to be her father? For lying to her about the apparent punishment I would inflict on her if she said no?”

Fear replaced the confusion. “Your Grace-.”

“For trying to implement me in something I wanted no part of?” she spat, ignoring whatever pathetic apologies and excuses he planned to ooze out of his mouth. “Tell me, Tyrion, which of those crimes are you sorry for?”

“I was trying to help you,” he said quickly, panic souring his every word. “With Bronn in the Riverlands and Sansa out of power you would have one more Great House answering to you. Sansa never would have agreed if she didn’t think there was a threat behind it!”

“I DIDN’T WANT HER THREATENED!!” In the distance a dragon screamed. “I didn’t even want you to ask more than twice! I told you I didn’t want to gain power by marriage pacts, so you go and lie and say I not only ordered it but lying about fictional threats I made?! And what’s worse is if she hadn’t been so blinded by her anger that she could barely think straight, there could have been SERIOUS implications! Do you understand that? She could have taken away EVERYTHING I have built for, an act of revenge for something I didn’t even do!”

Daenerys wasn’t sure which of the gods to thank for making it so Sansa hadn’t either automatically gone and told Jons secret, or threatened Daenerys with blackmail. The second the ultimatum left her mouth, Sansa would have known she could dangle Jon’s parentage over her head and use it as a win. She could have asked for anything and when Daenerys wouldn’t give in, Sansa would have told.

Daenerys would not have lived like that, being blackmailed into giving someone whatever they wanted. Period. And it wouldn’t have been Daenerys who would have paid the price.

But that hadn’t happened. Sansa had been so upset, so enraged that she burst in her chambers and began yelling at the queen, seeing nothing but red, unable to even plot or scheme correctly. Crueler monarchs would have cut off a hand or ripped out a tongue for that kind of outburst, but Daenerys knew far too well how momentary anger could come without notice and without meaning to cause offense. That was why she didn’t punish Jaime for lashing out at her the night of the trial, and that was why she would not punish Sansa for this act of angry insolence today. 

“She wouldn’t hate you any more than she does now!” Tyrion argued. “This would have done nothing but gotten you another Great House under your control!”

“I told you I didn’t want this!” the dragon hissed, and the lion glowered. “I gave you an opportunity to convince her, she said no, that should have been the end of it!”

Tyrion closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Your Grace, I apologize. I thought I was doing what was best for you. I didn’t know you would be so upset.”

“No you thought you were doing what was best for YOU and your friend, and you thought you would use my threats to frighten Sansa into accepting a marriage pact. It ends today, Tyrion.”

“Your Grace-.”

“You never advise me again. You will not sit on any of my small councils. You will never speak for me again.”

“I was trying to do the right thing!”

“The only reason I’m not leaving your family penniless and without a home and titles, is because I do not trust you two not to go running off to Cersei if I take the lands away from the Lannisters.”

_And I will not punish my good-daughters brothers before they’re even conceived._

“You will rule Casterly Rock and the Westerlands and be titled the Warden of the West until your brother's second sons come of age, if any are born to him,” she continued. “The moment a second trueborn son of his turns six and ten you step down. If not the Rains of Castamere will look like child's play. Have I made myself abundantly clear, Lord Tyrion, yes or no?”

“Your Grace-.”

“Yes or no.”

He narrowed his eyes at her and for a long moment nothing was said between either of them. “Yes, Your Grace,” he finally spat.

A knock on the door of Tyrion’s chambers saved them both from any more tension. Daenerys barked for the man to enter. It was her two unsullied, letting her know the audience was gathered. Without another word Daenerys rose and Tyrion followed, and they both made their way to the Great Hall that was packed from stem to stern with curious onlookers wondering why there was a meeting so late at night.

Jon was there in his normal space but Sansa was not and neither, Daenerys noticed with a smirk, was Theon. Ser Jaime and Brienne were also missing but she remembered the pain of losing Rhaego and she remembered the urge to curl in on yourself and hide away until you were nothing, all so you could try to rid yourself of the feelings of shame and anger and guilt and grief and inadequacy. 

Daenerys had told Jon about this plan earlier, leaving out what she asked that sent Sansa hurrying from the room and the queen chuckling. It had taken every ounce of her strength to convince Jon not to kill Tyrion and Bronn both. 

“Let me handle this,” she begged, and finally he relented.

A few minutes later Bronn walked in, flanked by two unsullied. The moment he saw the furious look on Daenerys face he turned towards the dwarf standing by her side, looking more annoyed than anything else. “You lost me my castle and the wolf girl, didn’t you ya little cunt?”

“Silence,” she barked and Bronn sighed but he stayed quiet nevertheless, looking obnoxiously bored.

Daenerys hoped a stretch of silence would intimidate the upjumped sellsword but instead he had the same bored, slightly uninterested expression on his hard carved face. 

“Do you know Ser Davos Seaworth, Ser Bronn?” Daenerys asked the sellsword when she realized the intimidation of silence wouldn't work.

“Nope,” he answered with a shrug. “Should I?”

“He was the Hand of Stannis Baratheon during the War of the Five Kings. He is now the top adviser to Jon Snow.”

“So he’s some rich perfumed lord, so what?”

There was a rabble of laughter from the crowd of those that knew Ser Davos. Jon himself had to bite back a snicker.

Daenerys merely just answered, “Ser Davos is neither rich, perfumed or a lord. He came from Fleabottom, the son of a crabber, with as humble beginnings as you. But he rose to his station by being loyal, fair and a good man. When I take back the Seven Kingdoms I will probably reward him with a spot on my small council.”

Jon glanced at her and she at him, and the two shared a warm smile. 

“Good for him,” Bronn spoke up. “But what’s that got to do with me?”

Daenerys smiled a smile full of poison. “Absolutely nothing, Ser Bronn. I just wanted to let you know what you **_could_ ** have been had you not been so dishonorable. If you had come to Tyrion with the genuine intent on warning us what Cersei was doing, you would have been rewarded. Instead you blackmailed him, and he then lied to a young girl on YOUR behalf. You are married to another, yes? With a keep of your own?”

“Aye. The Lady Lollys Stokeworth and the castle Stokeworth.”

“So how did you plan to marry Sansa while you were married?”

His answer was infuriating casual, as though she was asking about the weather. “Oh pretty little Ladies fall off their horses and snap their pretty little necks all the time. I’d be such a grieving widow, I have no idea how I could have even suffered through the wedding feast but I’m sure I would have found a way.”

Daenerys glared at the sellsword. Her nails cut into her flesh as she curled her hands into fists. “Cersei Lannister hired you to kill me,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice even. “She hired you to kill Lord Tyrion, to kill the Lady Sansa-.”

The Valesmen and Northmen watching to climb to their feet, stomping their feet, screaming their protests and curses, and Bronn had to duck as a full mug of ale flew by, shattering on the wall. It didn’t matter if she lost them the North, if she put them in danger, Sansa was still a Stark, and Cersei Lannister sent some southern cutthroat, the most dishonorable of the dishonorable, to do the deed.

After a moment she raised her hands, urging silence. 

“She also hired you to murder the Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime-.”

“Technically I wasn’t gonna kill the one handed bastard, I was just supposed to drag him back to King’s Landing so his sister could do the deed.”

“So you admit to plotting the murders of three Highborns, the queen, and kidnapping the heir to the Westerlands?”

Tyrion whipped towards her at that particular title, eyes wide. Daenerys ignored him and Bronn shrugged. “I didn’t go through with it. Surely that’s gotta count for something.”

“But would you have? And for once in your life answer honesty, Ser Bronn. If Tyrion had done the right thing and refused your blackmail?”

“I’m always honest,” he shot back. “That’s why none of you Highborns like me, except him.” Bronn nodded to the dwarf. “Because I’m honest and not afraid to tell you what the fuck you’re doing wrong.”

“On the contrary, Ser, I value honesty in advisers, more than anything else. Had you not plotted to kill me and blackmailed my former hand, perhaps I could have found a place for you. Now; would you have gone through with it?”

“I wouldn’t have had a shot with you, you’re too bloody well protected by men without cocks and Dothraki fucks with braids that touch the ground.”

“If I was unprotected? You had a clear shot right now, would you take it?”

“That was the job I was paid to do, you ain’t no different then the others I’ve killed except you had the fortune to be born with the right name. Same with Sansa and Jaime’s big blonde slice. Tyrion?” He pursed his lips and looked at the dwarf for a moment before he looked back at Daenerys. “I would have had a harder time but aye, probably. And I would have had no problem dragging the Kingslayer back. His sisters fucking cracked there ain’t no coming back for her, and I don’t wanna be the one to piss that off.”

Daenerys nodded slowly. “Thank you, for your honesty Ser Bronn. It’s a rare man who openly admits to a queen that they would have no problems killing her were she to be unprotected. But you have confessed to the crime of attempted murder of not only the queen but the attempted murder of three other Highborns and the kidnapping of another. You confessed to the crime of blackmailing Lord Tyrion in an attempt to wed Sansa Stark.” Another scream of outrage. “The sentence for such a crime is death.”

“Your Grace!” Tyrion protested above the cheers as Bronn finally let something other than bored disinterest flicker across his face. “You cannot!”

“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do, Lord Tyrion!” Daenerys barked sharply.

“He saved my life, countless times, he is the reason my brother is standing here!”

“And had he remained your loyal man rather than use this to his advantage, if he had come to you out of genuineness and loyalty for the Lannister family and not expect a reward in the form of Sansa Stark, a reward I EXPLICITLY forbade,” she reminded him more for the rabble in the audience then the dwarf, “then he would be rewarded right now. But as such he didn’t. He was opportunistic and tried to use this to his advantage. Now he will pay the price.

“The Lannisters promised me a castle,” Bronn argued. “Those fuckers promised to pay their debts, and I served that bloody house for years. Jaime promised me a castle. Cersei promised me the Riverlands. Tyrion promised me the Stark girl.”

“When a man tries to murder a Khal or Khaleesi the Dothraki tie him to the back of a horse naked and force him to run behind it. Be grateful I am not subjecting you to that.” She nodded to the guards who came over on Bronn's side. “Take him outside,” Daenerys ordered them in their native tongue. Without another word they took him by the arms and dragged him away. 

Daenerys rose from her seat as did the rest of the audience. Jon stood and walked by her side as the crowd parted for the two of them. It was quite the beautiful night, with a large full moon and a million stars shining bright in the sky. Soon the light of the dragon fire would be burning bright along with them.

Bronn was not protesting against the Unsullied. He was angry, but he was not weeping, he was not sobbing or begging or praying… 

“Please,” Tyrion begged as they approached the dragons. She never heard him sound so terrified, so heartbroken. “You gave mercy to Brienne, you gave mercy to Sansa!”

“Brienne was an innocent whose only crime was being forced into a trial she did not want to take part in because of her honor. And I allowed Lady Sansa to yield because the loss of a few titles was not worth the death of her friend. Your man would have killed us had you not promised him a young girl and a family's ancestral home. The sentence is death.”

“ _Please!”_

“If the assassin was anyone else besides your friend would you object this strongly?” His face fell as the words came back around to him again. “Would you think me unfair, unkind or unwise because of my choice?”

Without waiting for an answer she walked over to Drogon who was already eyeing the cutthroat and growling low in his throat. “I Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen,” she began, her voice the only sound in the cold winds. “the First of my Name, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, the Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, sentence you to die.”

Bronn was breathing hard, and his hands were curled into a fist. He was staring Drogon right in the eye, glaring at the great black beast. 

“Do you have any last words?”

“Tyrion!” he yelled out, not taking his dark eyes from the dragons. “You’re a real cunt, ya know that? But fuck do I love ya for it…” Daenerys saw the tears stream down the dwarfs face glowing in the torch light. He looked to Daenerys and gave a curt nod before turning back to the dragon. “Come on…” Bronn snarled at the dragon, his whole body shaking. “Come on, ya fucker do it! Come on!” He shouted louder. “Do it! **FUCKING DO IT YA UGLY FUCKER, COME ON!”**

“Dracarys.”

His screams were barely heard over the roaring of Drogon as he bathed him in his fire. Some of the audience screamed as well, and some turned their heads. Tyrion was weeping, but he would not turn away as the screams from the man faded near as quickly as they began. They watched Bronn fall into the snow, silent and unmoving, the most clever cutthroat any of them had ever known now gone.

Daenerys watched for a moment longer before she walked over to the dwarf. “I’ll allow you to arrange for his ashes to be spread wherever you wish,” she said softly. “Whichever castle or tract of land or wherever else you deem appropriate. Or if you want to keep it, you may.”

Tyrion said nothing, and just stared ahead at the body of his former friend still engulfed in flames. She went to walk away but he reached out and grabbed hold of her wrist. Her unsullied went to tackle the dwarf but she halted them with a raised hand as she stared down at him.

“I told my sister this when she harmed someone I cared about,” he said without turning away from the flames. “I didn’t even need to do anything, the Gods took care of her for me four times over. He turned slowly and looked up at her. His pale green eyes burned into her with hate and grief. “A day will come, when you think you are safe and happy,” he told her, “and your joy will turn to _ashes_ in your mouth. And you will know the debt is paid.”

He yanked his hand away and turned back to a still burning Bronn, the crackling of flames and the sizzling of melted flesh the only sound in the world. 

Jon walked beside him lost deep in thought, not saying a word but when Daenerys reached down and took his hand he gave it a gentle squeeze and held it until they were back in the chambers. 

“Are you alright?” she asked quietly as she stood before him, lacing his fingers with hers.

Jon seemed to think for a moment before he nodded slowly. “I am,” he said in a scratchy whisper. “I’ve just never seen a living man burned before.”

“Are you upset with my decision?”

“No,” he said quickly, taking her other hand. “No, Daenerys, no, I fully stand behind you and support you for this. The man was hired to kill you, he tried to blackmail Tyrion so he could marry Sansa. If you hadn't done it I would have lobbed his head off myself.” A burden lifted off her shoulder and when she smiled he smiled back, only for it to fall a second later. “It was just... a very intense thing to witness.”

Daenerys nodded. “I understand. They feel pain for less than five seconds,” she promised. “Your nerves fry and then your brain completely shuts down to try to protect you. It’s all over in about 10 seconds.”

“Shorter than a botched hanging, I suppose,” he muttered. Jon smirked. “Or hounds. It’s just… I saved a man from burning before, I risked Stannis’ ire for it. Mance Rayder, he was king beyond the wall and would not bend the knee. His red priest liked to burn people at the stake and he was terrified to die by fire so I shot an arrow in his heart. I couldn’t bear to watch a man spend his last few moments terrified, screaming and sobbing in front of the men who swore to follow him.”

“That was very noble of you. Fire is a tool in death. That is all. It can be done as quick as burning them with dragon fire and having it be over in a few seconds, burning at the stake where you feel the flames lick at you for longer and you suffocate on the smoke, or you can roast someone slowly for hours in their armor…” Daenerys reached forward and ran her fingers over Longclaws pommel. “A sword can take a man’s head off in less than half a second. “Or it can stab a man in the heart, make it last a few seconds longer. You can pierce his lungs and slowly suffocate him over minutes, stab him in the stomach and make the pain last for hours, or lob off bits and pieces as you go, withholding death for weeks… It’s a tool. That’s all it is.”

“Do you ever get used to it?” he asked her. “The smell or the sight or the sounds?”

“The day I grow used to the horrors of burning men is the day that spells our doom.”

The last of the tension lifted from his shoulders and Daenerys smiled softly, as she brought his hand up to her face and she nuzzled against the hard and callused touch as he caressed her. “I don’t like to be with someone after I burn,” she admitted. “It just… I feel like that crosses a line I’m far too afraid to cross.”

“I wouldn’t want to either.”

“But will you just lay here with me for a while?”

The smile warmed her far more than any fire ever could. “You never have to ask that, Dany.”

After they took off their boots and clothes they pulled on their sleep things, threadbare grey linen for him and black silk for her, and climbed into bed. Jon immediately took her in his arms and Daenerys smiled as she nuzzled against him, enjoying the protection and warmth and love that was washing over her in waves as though she was sinking into a warm bed. 

His fingers were combing through her long silver hair and it lulled her into such a peaceful state that the world around her seemed to disappear entirely, all except Jon.

“Marry me,” he whispered without stopping his fingers. “I already agreed to that,” she laughed softly.

“I mean before we leave for Tarth.” She turned to face him and he interlocked his hand with hers. “This whole thing with Bronn just… how easy would it have been for him to shoot an arrow at you? Or sneak into your bed and cut your throat? And what if the next time Cersei hires someone actually competent? Someone who won’t try to use this as an opportunity to try to better himself?” The mere thought seemed to grieve him. His grip tightened around her, as though he could protect her from any sort of future assassin. “I just… anything could take you from me and who knows how long this war could last? So I just… I want to be yours, Daenerys. I don’t want to risk waiting any longer.”

The queen melted at his words, and tears of joy and love and all the beautiful things in the world filled her eyes. 

“I’ll marry you here,” Daenerys whispered. He took her face in his hands and pressed a kiss to her lips. “We leave in less than a month, yes?”

“Yes. That should be more than enough time to plan a royal wedding along with a war, I think.”

Daenerys laughed, the sound making him beam as if it were the most beautiful thing he ever heard. He took her in his arms and kissed her and held her as tight as any man had ever held held a woman, loving her more than any man had ever loved a woman as well. For a moment she was urged to break her own self implemented rule, but she quickly shook the thought away.

It was still far too soon, even if the blackened charred bones of Bronn was the last possible thing on either of their minds right now. Instead they just held each other and gazed into eachothers eyes until he fell asleep. When Daenerys was sure he wouldn’t wake up she pressed a kiss to his forehead and untangled herself from his hold, pulling on her silk robe and leaving the chambers.

Winterfell was asleep for the night, with many of the audience having gone back to bed after the trial and the halls were empty as she made her way to one of the lower floors. She could hear whispering behind the door so she knocked. A beat, and then footsteps and the door opened.

“Your Grace,” Sansa greeted cordially in nothing more but a thick gray fur robe. Daenerys could see the marks of a lover on her long neck and could hear Theon trying not to make the bed creak as he rolled over, failing terribly and a warm pink blush painted her cheeks as Daenerys smirked. Sansa gnawed at her lip to keep from grinning, looking both more a woman and a girl then the queen ever saw her look before. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” the redhead asked, her cheeks growing warmer.

“I wanted to let you know that you don’t need to worry about Bronn any longer. He admitted he would have had no problem killing you and your sworn sword, and if he could have managed a way to get me without my guards he would have killed me as well.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Sansa told her with a curt nod of the head. “I heard the screams. My window overlooks that clearing but I didn’t watch. I- I mean I appreciate what you did, and I support it, but I couldn’t…”

“You do not need to apologize for not wanting to witness a man burning,” Daenerys said. “Many men there had to turn their heads as well.”

“But I do thank you for… this. Immensely.”

“Of course. And are you happy?”

For the first time since they met Sansa smiled, looking genuine and sweet and genteel, the perfect southern Lady. “More than I’ve been in a very long time, Your Grace.”

Daenerys smiled. “I’m glad for it, Lady Sansa. Truly. But the reason I’m here is I have something I want to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“I want you to do something for me.” Sansa’s face fell slightly and Daenerys smiled, hoping to put her at ease. “Trust me,” she urged. “I believe you’re going to enjoy this…”

**Jaime**

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He wasn’t sure how long it’s been since he managed to find his way back to his chambers from the inn where his brother made a promise that was sure to blow up in their faces, how long it was since he wept in Brienne’s arms as she told him what happened and she held him and stroked his graying mane until she managed to help him into bed. Every second felt like a minute, every minute an hour, every hour an eternity, and he just wanted to not exist anymore. 

It would have been a boy. Cersei was sure of it and she had been right the other three times. It would have been a boy and she PROMISED Jaime he would be named the father this time. He would be named Lannister, he would call Jaime father, he would have been able to hold him and protect him and love him openly without Cersei’s protests. But all those dreams were washed away in a wave of blood that was driving his sister mad, and he hadn’t been there to comfort her.

He thought he was out of tears but they came all the same, streaming down his face in silent trickles as he pictured a small strapping boy with golden hair and green eyes. This one would look like Jaime. The rest he could never see himself in except in small flashes of Tommen's smile or the shape of Myrcella’s eyes, but this one would look like him. 

_Would have looked like him_ , he reminded himself. The babe would look like nothing now. It wouldn’t even get a burial, puddles of blood don’t get a spot in the Casterly Rock crypt afterall. 

And then there was Cersei. Cersei, his sister, his twin… she had to go through it all alone. As devastated as he was feeling he couldn’t imagine what she was going through. He had Brienne, he had his brother, she had no one. The father was supposed to comfort his child’s mother, a brother was supposed to love his sister, a lover was supposed to protect his lover and Jaime failed Cersei on every count. 

_You left us_ ! she was screaming at him, and the silent tears fell faster. _You abandoned us!_

 _I was trying to do the right thing,_ he wanted to yell back. _I wanted to be honorable, I wanted to live up to my title, I wanted to live up to her expectations of me…_

But the reasons why he left didn’t matter. His son was dead, and Cersei had been forced to go through it alone, all because he wanted to play the hero. But how could he possibly call himself a hero when he left his sister and his lover alone? Even if she hadn’t miscarried, she would have gone through the pregnancy alone. He would have allowed Cersei to be swallowed by the flames of war and dragons and for what? Because he didn’t want to step up to save his sister and lover? Because he didn’t want to take a side? Cersei was wretched, she was terrible, she did not deserve to sit the throne but what about all Jaime did?

That was not the actions of an honorable man. That was not the actions of a knightly man. It was the actions of a cruel man that allowed his sister to go through war alone. It was the actions of a despicable man that forced a mother to grieve their son's death alone, and that’s exactly what Jaime was. A cruel man, a despicable man, an evil man.

A hateful man. 

He was just as hateful as she was. He killed his own cousin to come back to her, he pushed a boy out of a window to protect her, he would have killed every man, woman and child out of a window to get back to her and it was only Brienne’s presence there that stopped him.

Jaime didn’t deserve Brienne. He didn’t deserve to stay here in Winterfell safe with the most honorable woman he knew while Cersei fought this war and grieved their son all alone. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right that he was just as hateful as she was and had a chance of happiness when Cersei didn’t. He should be with Cersei, he wanted to be with Cersei, he needed to be with Cersei.

He was going to go home to Cersei. 

Jaime forced himself to get up from the bed and pulled on his clothes, packing what little he had taken with him. The door opened and shut, and he ignored the presence.

“You’re going back to her,” Brienne said softly. He didn’t turn to her as he grabbed his armor and began to pull it on. Cersei won’t surrender, Daenerys will refuse to lose. Once the queen finds out you’ve gone back to her… And you said it yourself last night, Cersei wanted to kidnap you so she could murder you.”

“Have you ever ran away from a fight?” he asked, grabbing his bag and storming past her without so much as a second glance. She hadn’t. He knew she hadn’t, she was too honorable for that.

Brienne was good, she was honorable, she was kind, she was decent, she was everything Jaime told himself he was, what Brienne told him he was, but it was all a lie. He wasn’t good, he wasn’t honorable. He was hateful, and he wanted to suffer his hatefulness with his sister and mourn their son together.

Jaime didn’t deserve to look at her. He wouldn’t have been able to stand the pain in her eyes when he left. Brienne deserved better than him. Jaime deserved far less than her. Jaime deserved Cersei.

But as he went to leave the room, she reached out and grabbed him by the hand and yanked her back to him. She took her face in his hands, and he stared at her with wide eyes and dropped jaw.

“You’re not like your sister,” she insisted, trying her best to keep her voice steady but the shake in it was too obvious to miss. A rush of anger filled him. He wasn’t better than Cersei and Cersei wasn’t better than him. They were one in the same, two hateful miserable souls. “You’re not!” she said, as if she could read his mind. “You’re better than she is, you don’t need to die with her!”

He saw something in her face then that he never saw before. Not at the bear pit, not when Locke's men dragged her off to the woods, not during the Long Night… Brienne was afraid. Not of her lover leaving her, not of being unloved, not of being left... She was terrified for Jaime’s life. She knew what awaited him if he left, either by Daenerys’ hands or Cersei’s. She knew he would die just like Renly had, just like Catelyn did, and she would be powerless to stop it.

A wretched pain filled her big blue eyes, and her thick jaw trembled. “Stay here,” she begged him as tears began to fall. “Stay with me… Please… Stay!” 

She never asked anyone for a thing in this world unless it was requested of her and she wasn’t even asking for herself, she was begging for his life. That was how good this woman was; begging a terrible man who's done terrible things to stay with her not for her own self, but to save his own worthless skin. 

His hand reached up and covered hers, gently stroking the soft pale flesh with his thumb. He knew his final words to her would make her despise him, it would hurt her, it would crush her… The least he could do was make sure his last touch was comforting.

“You think I’m a good man?” he breathed, pulling her hand slowly away from his face. “I pushed a boy out of a tower for Cersei.” _You would have faced Roberts wrath head on rather than harm an innocent child._ “I strangled my own cousin, just to get back to Cersei.” _You would have elected to be a prisoner for the rest of your life if it was between hurting your family or freedom._ “I would have killed every man, woman and child in Riverrun, for Cersei.” _You would have stayed away from me forever if that’s what it took to not draw blood._

The shuddering breath she drew was a dagger in his heart. “She’s hateful… and so am I.”

Jaime turned to leave, to never look back and see her again. But before he could leave she reached out and clutched his arm painfully tight, the same way she did at the dragon pit.

“Jaime, wait!” she cried out, a sob escaping before she had the chance to bite it back. He whipped back around, eyes wide.

“Please,” she begged him, unable to hide her tears. “I can’t lose someone else I love again, I can’t! I can’t go through that again!”

He took her by the shoulders, his own jaw trembling with tears. “I’m not good for you, Brienne. You were wrong, I’m not honorable.”

“You ARE! Don’t listen to what her voice is telling you, don’t listen what everyone else has told you, listen to me! You ARE honorable, Jaime!” Her voice was shaking like a leaf in the wind but she spoke with such conviction, such truth that a small piece of himself almost believed her. “You pushed a boy from a tower to save your family, you killed your cousin to escape captivity, and you spared every person in Riverrun because you wanted to keep your oath to Catelyn Stark not to harm any of the Tully forces.”

Her tears were coming faster and Jaime wanted to do nothing more than wrap her in his arms and kiss her and love her until she was okay again. “You- you think you’re as bad as her? That you’re just like her? You’re wrong, you are NOTHING like your sister!”

“Brienne-.”

“You aren’t! She’s convinced you that you’re some hateful person, that you can’t survive without her, that you two are the same, and she’s wrong! She doesn’t know you, she doesn’t know what you’ve done! You think Cersei would have lost her hand saving a woman, especially her captor, from rape? Do you think she would have leapt one handed into a bear pit? Do you think she would have given away a priceless sword to someone so they could protect Sansa because she swore a vow to the enemy? You started a war in the streets because you cared about your brother, would she have done that for you? Ever? Did she send out a single soldier to go and try to punish the man who took your hand? She made time to send someone to kidnap you, but did she EVER send somebody after Locke?”

She tried in vain to wipe the tears from her eyes, but more replaced them in earnest. “If you want to save Cersei I’ll help you I swear I will, just… you can’t see yourself the way she does, Jaime! You can’t die thinking you’re hateful, you can’t!” He wrapped his arms around her as his own tears fell from his eyes while she clutched at his shirt. “You’re so much more than that…” 

Jaime stroked her pale blonde hair, trying to do his best not to weep right along with her. Had it been anyone else, anyone else in the world, he would have taken her offer to help him save Cersei as nothing but a jilted lover wanting to seek revenge. But this wasn’t anyone else. This was Brienne, and her offer to help save and hide the woman the man she loved was leaving her for was as valid as any other offer she made.

He knew that, because she was good. She was good and decent and honorable, she would risk walking into the lion's den just so he had a chance to walk out of it. It wouldn't matter if he chose Cersei, Brienne wouldn't care about that. She just wanted him safe. 

Cersei didn’t want him safe. She sent a man, someone he considered a friend right up until the moment he told him he would have no problems killing Brienne, to drag him back to King's Landing just to make his death more intimate, more slow, more painful. She threatened to kill him, the father of her children, all because he wanted to keep a promise he made. Brienne would never do that. 

Jaime would never do that. He would have never burned down a sept rather than face consequences of his actions, he never would have had a small girls dog killed because his son had been hurt by another girls dog (especially knowing the attack had been well earned), he never would have forced that same girl to stay betrothed to the boy who took her fathers head, he never would have smothered his firstborn child just because the mother was someone he loathed and then passed it off as a natural cause… 

Tears fell down his face as he remembered Bronn's words. She was too far gone for reason to have any effect on her. This would have driven her mad if Jaime was there or not. She was murdering innocents, trying to find someone to blame the tragedy on. Jaime would have protested, Cersei would have turned her ire on him, and she would have killed him. If he found out Cersei sent a hitman after Brienne he would have left anyway to warn her, to save her, to protect her…

Nothing would have made a difference, he realized. Being there wouldn’t have helped her, all it would have done is gotten him killed. Plus if he hadn’t left then Brienne would have been killed during the Long Night nor would Jon have been able to defeat the Night King. Saving humanity took precedence over helping someone grieve over a tragedy. 

His eyes flickered to his sword leaning in the corner of the small cramped room, the cool blue light still shining in its scabbard. Jaime’s fight was not over yet. He still had a fight to win, he still had a war to fight. His life would not end trying to fruitlessly save his sister after leaving the woman he loved weeping at his refusal to admit his own humanity.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, holding her tighter. “I’m sorry, I don’t… I was-... the baby, he… I wanted this one to make it.”

“Brienne sniffed away her tears and lifted her head from his shoulder. He immediately bowed his head, unable to stand the sight of tears in her big blue eyes. She took her flesh hand in his. “Jaime I am _so_ sorry for what happened, to you and Cersei both. But you thinking you’re some hateful person and rushing back knowing it’ll end badly won’t bring your son back.”

He nodded, still turned away from her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She brushed her thumb over the back of his hand. “I know, and if this was just about you wanting to leave me and wanting to go back to her I would have let you go without another word but… I hate that you can’t see yourself the way she does and not the way I see you. You think you’ve done one good act in your life when you’ve done so much more than that.”

Jaime finally lifted his gaze to look at her. “You really believe that?”

“I do.” She spoke softly but with conviction and truth and honesty and for a moment, Jaime thought she might have been telling the truth. “You’re a good man.”

Jaime. Do you think I would have fallen in love with you if you weren’t?”

“Truthfully? I think you’re too good a person to see the bad in anybody.”

“I saw the bad in you once,” she argued. “But then I learned the truth, and I realized that wasn’t all that you were.”

He reached up and ran his hand through her pale blonde hair. “For as long as I live I don’t know why the Gods decided I was the one fortunate enough to be with you.”

He brought her lips to his, dropping the bag at his feet and wrapping his arms around her, pulling her tight against him and pushing any thoughts of ever leaving out of mind.


	29. The Wedding Day

Jon took a deep breath as he looked at himself in the looking glass. His curls fell loose around his face, and his ensemble was pure black high collared jacket, made of some supple soft material, and plain black breeches. A silver belt, the only hint of color, cinched his waist, and his normal heavy brown wolf cloak had been replaced by a flowing black fur cloak that only reached the length of his back, held on by two black leather straps embroidered with two snarling direwolves.

If anyone bothered to look close at the belt they would have seen that between every studded metal snarling wolf was a three headed dragon. When the tailor asked if it was meant to represent his queen after he requested it, Jon just smiled and said it was to represent the Targaryen House.

Jon smoothed out the wrinkle free jerkin, trying his best to swallow his nerves and excitement. He looked trim and elegant, strong and fierce, a wolf and dragon mated in perfect form. 

A timid knock drew him from his thoughts and he called for the man to come in, and when the door opened he smiled as large as he ever had.

“Hi,” Arya muttered, looking down at the ground. Her outfit was as plain as his, black and dark grey furs and leathers, as befitting a Northern guest at a proper Northern wedding. 

There were no colors, short of the brides gown, no banners, no long strips of pretty silk hung from trees. Bright colors and jubilancy would have taken away from the reverence of the Old Gods, Ned told Sansa once when she complained about how boring northern weddings were. Weddings were about joining a man and woman in love, their houses joining in power. The man promises his protection and the woman promises her faithfulness and both of them promises to always honor the other one and the Gods.

Sansa just rolled her eyes and dreamily said how one day she would be married at the great sept of Baelor, with a beautiful colorful dress and her groom would wear handsome leathers. Her maidens cloak and marriage cloak would be the absolute envy of all the other noblewomen and not a single soul would be allowed to wear black. 

Jon walked over to his little sister. “I haven’t seen you around much.” 

Arya shrugged and looked down at the floor, shuffling her feet. “Yeah well… I figured it wouldn’t be right not to talk to you on your wedding day.”

Jon nodded slowly. “Well at least you’re talking. You look nice.” 

“Thank you.” She finally lifted her head to look at him. “You look nice too. You almost look like Robb. You should wear your sword though.”

“Why?” He eyed the small skinny sword and catspaw dagger in her belt. “Expecting to fight a battle mid-dinner?”

Arya’s hand wrapped around Needle’s hilt. “Just in case.”

Jon’s face fell, and he kneeled down in front of her. “Arya, listen to me… Nothing is going to happen tonight.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that. You lost your last brother for a very, very long time.”

“And you are?” she said softly. “My brother?”

No other question could have stung as hard. “Of course I’m your brother.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “I will _always_ be your brother, I was raised in Winterfell by Father just like you and Sansa and Robb. Nothing else matters but that.”

“I know but-.”

“No, no buts Arya. Okay you were-... you were the only one in this family to accept me, always, without question.” Tears welled in her eyes that she quickly wiped away. “You never called me your ‘bastard brother’ or your ‘half brother’, I’ve always been your brother. You never cared I had a different mother, why does it make a difference if I have a different father as well?”

“I don’t know,” she said, voice choked with tears. Jon wrapped her in a hug and she returned the embrace, resting her head on his shoulders. “I just don’t want things to change. I don’t want YOU to change.”

“I won’t ever change, Arya. I did consider dying my hair silver but I don’t think that would have been a good look…” That drew a tearful laugh from her and he smiled, pulling away so he could look at her and brush the tears from her eyes. “I love you. That’s the most important thing, and I PROMISE you that won’t ever change.”

“I love you too.” She sniffed away the last of her tears. “I’m sorry I’ve been so stupid.”

“You haven’t been stupid.” He wrapped her in a hug again and kissed the top of her head. “It took me a minute to process it too. But I’m glad you’ve come around. Our son is going to need a fun aunt to hang around with.”

He laughed as Arya quickly pulled away, gaping at him with wide eyes. “He- you- she’s pregnant?”

Jon nodded, the smile lighting up his face and then she was beaming as well. “We found out after the battle. I asked her the day before, the timing just happened to work out.”

“Jon!” She threw her arms around him and he laughed again as he hugged her back. “I’m so happy for you!”

“Thank you. But you can’t say anything just yet, if Cersei knew she was pregnant…” 

“I won’t say a word, I swear!”

Another knock on his door and both of them turned to look. Jon smiled and stood as Sansa walked in, carrying something big and thick and heavy in her arms. Her gown was quite beautiful, a floor length skirt with long black ribbons that trailed behind her and a long sleeved black corset that was buttoned all the way up her neck. Black silk gloves went all the way up to her elbow and a thick fur hood would be pulled up over her head when she went outside. 

Jon noticed Brienne’s dagger, a plain piece of steel with a blue marble hilt, in her waist, the scabbard sewn into the folds of fabric so a sword belt belt wouldn’t ruin the cut of the dress but he held his tongue this time. If it put his sisters more at ease to carry weapons at dinner then he wouldn’t be the one to take that feeling of security away from them.

“Is that it?” he asked the redhead who handed him the long heavy cloak. He unfolded it to show a dark white cloak with full bodied gray wolves in motion sewn up the sides and the head of the sigil stitched in the middle. 

“It is. Mother’s spirit might haunt us all for letting you use it but I think she’ll understand necessities.”

“Why didn’t you just make him a new one?” Arya asked as she ran her fingers over one of the wolves.

“Because I’ve been otherwise preoccupied,” Sansa answered, failing to bite back an excited grin. “Besides this might be the only time Fathers marriage cloak gets used.”

“It’s perfect.” He kissed Sansa on the cheek. “You look beautiful by the way.” Jon pulled back and looked at his two sisters. “Thank you both for being here. I know we’ve had our issues,” he said, more to Sansa than Arya. “But It wouldn't have felt right doing this without my family. I love you both so much.”

“We love you too,” Arya said with a warm smile.

“Always,” Sansa added with a curt nod. 

Jon turned back to the reflecting glass and took a deep breath as he looked at himself one final time before he turned back to his sisters. He offered his arm to Sansa who took it and, holding his head as high as a man could, feeling as excited and proud as he ever had before, the three of them made their way to the Godswood. 

There were a number of black iron posts holding fire lit lanterns that made a path to the large white Weirwood Tree but other than that, there was no pomp, no circumstance, no flowers or draped silk among the trees… Even the guests' voices seemed heavy and hushed, much less joyful and jubilant than a southern wedding for the Lady of a Great House or a royal wedding that would have taken place in Kings Landing.

Bran sat in his chair besides the large white tree wearing a plain black outfit, looking as stone faced and solemn as ever and Arya took a spot behind him. When Jon and Sansa reached the heart tree he kissed her cheek and she made her way into the crowd and took her place in front besides Theon, taking the Ironborns arm. Jon’s brow raised half an inch and Sansa just smiled and held the nervous man tighter.

While most of the guests wore the standard black there were a few spots of color amongst the audience. Jaime, Brienne and her father, the only Southerners in attendance, chose to wear typical southern Highborn wedding garb. The lion wore sleek fitting crimson leather with golden lions down the center and the tall woman on his arm donned herself in a conservative bright blue dress cinched with a dark pink belt, a fur cloak of blue and pink draped around her shoulders and a single yellow sun on a long golden chain hung around her neck. Beside her stood the Evenstar who had dressed himself in a handsome velvet doublet quartered rose and azure with a blue silk shirt beneath, black breeches and dark blue boots dotted with stars. Missandei looked gorgeous in an Essos style high waisted skirt of dark blue and a matching long sleeve top lined with dark colored fur, her tight curls shining beautifully in the torchlight. Grey Worm wore his normal black leather but Jon could have sworn the stern faced soldier almost could have been smiling.

There were a few Dothraki in attendance looking bored out of their minds in their finest horsehair and grass woven clothes, their bodies painted blue and their braids slicked in perfumed oils. Daenerys told him once that a Dothraki wedding with less than three deaths was considered a dull affair and Jon apologized that this would likely be the most boring wedding they ever attended. The Wildlings wore their normal furs looking somber and serious as the Northmen. Many of the same marriage customs that those south of the wall used originally came north of the wall and they understood this was a religious ceremony meant more to honor the Gods than celebrate the couple. The party afterwards was for them, but the ceremony was for the Gods.

The crunch of feet on snow drew him from his thoughts and he, along with the rest of the gathered men and women, turned towards the darkness and then, stepping into the soft glow of the lanterns, there she was.

Beautiful was too mild a word for what Daenerys was. She was stunning. Regal, ethereal, an otherworldly beauty that wars were fought over and men would gladly die for. 

A hundred braids seemed to be plaited into her long silver hair, all of them effortlessly pinned and pulled back into a larger braid with several loose curls framing her face, and her dress… Her dress was something out of a dream. It was a long sleeved ivory gown with pitch black flames licking up the bell-style skirt and tapering off as they reached the corset. When he looked closer he realized the flames were not just silk or velvet, but instead they were made up entirely of thousands of tiny black gemstones that glowed like fire in the light of the lanterns. Best of all was the way they were positioned your eyes were immediately drawn away from the ever growing bump. 

All the Gods in the heavens did not look as beautiful as she did, nor could any man have been in as much awe of the Gods as Jon was in awe of his queen right then. He was gaping slack jawed, he knew he was, but he couldn’t help himself. Daenerys was stunning, and she was all his. From this day, until his last.

The queen was on Jorah's arm, who dressed himself in a handsome but plain black leather doublet with the bear of House Mormont embroiled on the front, a long heavy black cape lined with grey fur around his shoulders, holding a lantern up so that he might light the way before them, and the Hand of the Queen pin displayed proudly on his breast.

Violet eyes caught gray and she smiled, and the joy radiating from her was so bright it seemed to be another source of light entirely. Any residual fretted nerves faded and he was now beaming as bright as the lanterns besides him and he was unable to take his eyes off his bride. All Jon could think of was how beautiful she looked, how heavenly she was, and how much the Gods must have favored him to make her his for the rest of their days.

Every step was a lifetime. He wanted her by his side now, he wanted her to be his wife, he wanted to pledge his love to this woman in front of the Gods and his sisters and the two southern knights and every other man and woman in the woods. He wanted to scream it from the highest mountain in Westeros that Daenerys was his and he was hers.

When she and Jorah neared the large Weirwood, Arya pushed Bran forward. “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Bran asked in a serious soft voice. 

The older man took a few steps to meet the boy. “Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, comes here to be wed,” Jorah replied. “A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods.”

“Who comes to claim her?” Bran asked, and Jon took a deep breath before he took a bold step towards his bride. 

“Jon Snow,” he announced to the congregation. “Son of Eddard Stark who was Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Who gives her?”

“Jorah, of House Mormont. Who is her closest adviser and oldest friend.”

Bran turned towards the Queen. “Your Grace; will you take this man?”

She took several steps forward. “I take this man,” Daenerys said at once with a strong clear voice. Jon didn’t even try to hide his beaming smile.

He turned towards the man beside him. “Jon Snow; will you take this woman?”

“I take this woman,” he said, not willing or able to take his eyes from the woman standing before him.

“If you have spoken true,” Bran continued, as somber as ever. “You may kneel before the Old Gods and beg for their blessings.”

Daenerys took Jons arm and the two of them walked up to the large white heart tree and kneeled before it, bowing their heads.

 _Let her be happy with me,_ Jon begged the Old Gods. _Let me give her everything she has ever wanted and desired. Let her know love. Let her be protected. Let her see herself as I do, through your eyes._

After a minute or so he heard Bran speak again and Jon along with the rest of the audience lifted their heads and opened their eyes. “May the Old Gods heed your prayers,” he told them and the two of them raised, smiles on both their faces as they turned to one another. “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Jon quickly unfolded the gray and white cloak that he had draped across his arms and wrapped it around her shoulders. Without wasting another moment Jon took Daenerys in his arms and dipped her low, kissing her good, and kissing her long to the melody of applause and cheering of the watching northern lords and the two southern knights but he heard none of them. The world melted away and nothing existed but Daenerys. She pulled him closer until all space disappeared between them and they could feel the beating of each other’s hearts against their chests, a melody made for them and no one else. 

When they broke apart he rested her forehead against his, clutching his jacket like she might float away and he was the only thing keeping her grounded.

“I love you,” Daenerys whispered, her voice breathy and wet with tears.

“I love you too,” Jon replied, burying his hand in her silver hair before he kissed her again. 

They finally pulled away and turned to the applauding crowd. Sansa was doing her best to wipe away her tears as she clapped wildly, Arya was beaming as bright as he had ever seen her and even Bran seemed to be smiling. The joy of the crowd was infectious and Jon picked up Daenerys wedding style, the sound of her laughter as he did the most beautiful sound he ever heard, twirling her in his arms for a moment before he set her down. She went over to Missandei and hugged the crying girl, and then Gray Worm as well, and Jon shook hands with Davos who clapped him on the shoulder and said how proud he was of him. When he hugged his sisters Arya whispered her congratulations again and Sansa asked if he liked the dress. When Jon said it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, his sister swelled with an enormous pride and all he could do was gape at her before he hugged her again, fighting back his tears and promising to find a way to repay her.

If a Northern wedding ceremony was solemn and serious, the feast afterwards was as rowdy and loud as you could get.

Loud music, louder laughs in the Great Hall that was full to bursting not only of the lord’s and ladies who attended the ceremony but some of the small folk, Winterfell's workers, the knights of the Vale, the Freefolk, and then there was the Unsullied and Dothraki who, despite a lack of killings and public fucking, seemed to having an okay time.

A group of musicians began playing when Jon and Daenerys walked in and he bowed low. “Might I have this dance, My Lady?”

Daenerys slipped her hand into his, beaming brightly at her new husband. “You may.”

The music twirled them around and around the hall. As they danced and swayed in one another’s arms he gazed into her violet eyes, eyes that loved and adored the man leading her, a soft smile gracing her painted lips all the while. The world faded away as he looked at her, not even caring if they were in step or not. He just wanted to be with her and hold her close.

As the music began to swell Jon pulled her in closer, their feet gliding as effortlessly as breathing and when the crescendo finished and the song died down, she kissed him, draping her arms around his shoulders as he put his hands on her waist while the audience cheered, not letting go of the other until the second song had started up again.

After their first dance others were allowed to take the floor. Neither Arya and Gendry didn’t seem to know what they were doing and looked a right mess doing it, but they were laughing and having fun while they were doing whatever it was they were doing at least. Sansa knew every step by heart, Theon a little less but he led her in the dance anyway, spinning her around and holding her tight, and when he leaned in close to whisper something Sansa giggled like a young girl. Jon frowned at the display but Daenerys turned his face back towards her and kissed him, and this new development between his sister and Theon was soon forgotten and pushed out of mind. 

Missandei seemed to almost be dancing around a stern faced Grey Worm who, when she pressed him to dance with her, made some kind of stiff awkward movements that made her laugh. The sound brought forth a rare smile, so he did it even more. But the real surprise was Brienne. The knight moved with a shocking amount of grace and elegance; so much so that it stunned others who wouldn’t think the tall woman could master something as feminine as dancing judging by the look of utter surprise on Sansa’s face as she watched her sworn shield float across the dance floor as beautifully as, well, her. 

After a few more songs came the feast. They were served the choice cut off honey roasted chicken and caprons, ribs crusted with garlic and herbs that fell off the bone (as per custom the Lord may pass on the best food to their friends and guests. Grey Worm took possession of the ribs rather quickly), roast yellow turnips swimming in butter and pepper, and slabs of pork steak with thick brown gravy and mushrooms overtop that Daenerys practically was salivating over. Jon and Daenerys had a few bites of each dish but they were too busy talking and laughing and enjoying one another to really care about the food. Jon waved away the wine, choosing to drink juice along with his bride in hopes that it wouldn’t look too suspicious when she declined as well. 

The sweets came finally, apricot cakes and blueberries swimming in sweet cream, and honeyed biscuits baked into the shape of wolf heads and dragons. All throughout the courses the musicians played, jugglers juggled and the crowds danced but Jon barely heard or saw any of it. He only had eyes for Daenerys, laughing and talking to her with the only breaks in conversation to chew and swallow.

After the feast they danced some more and he reluctantly allowed her out of arm's length so she could go and talk with Missandei and Grey Worm, dancing with her adviser, the two girls laughing and smiling and having fun but more importantly for one day, one glorious day, she was able to put away all the thoughts of war and battles and betrayals and all the rest of the horrors that they were dealing with.

“Snow.” 

Jon turned and saw Jaime standing by his side, also watching the bride. “Lannister,” he greeted as cordially as he could. The knight took a long sip of his wine and nodded towards the bride. 

“How many months along is she?” Jon had just taken a sip of juice when he choked on it, whipping towards the man who just raised a brow. “Not taking into account she hasn’t had a sip of wine all night but the color in her cheeks? The luster in her hair? I’ve been around it five times, it’s almost insulting you thought you could hide it.”

He closed his slack jaw and swallowed hard. “Your sister can’t know,” he begged. “If Cersei gets word of this…”

“I understand. She won’t hear it from me. What?” Jaime challenged when Jon raised a brow at him. “Trust me, Snow, I don’t want her to find out what’s happening here in the North anymore than you do. But I can’t stop others from making the same observations I have, Varys has probably already figured out the exact hour of conception.”

“I know but thank you nevertheless.”

“Of course. But I came over here because I wanted to tell you I had nothing to do with Tyrion’s idiocy regarding your sister and Bronn. I told him it was a bad idea, he didn’t listen… now his man is dead and my brother is in a tower cell.”

“And you’re alright with that?”

The Kingslayer just shrugged. “He was hired to kill her then blackmailed her adviser, and Tyrion lied to Sansa about what Daenerys wanted. What did he expect her to do? I don’t trust your queen as far as I can throw her Snow but even I can’t blame her for that.”

“She’s your queen too,” Jon told him quickly. “Even more so considering she allowed your family to retain your lands and titles.”

“Yes and apparently my second born son will reign after my brother,” he drolled with a roll of his eyes, letting him know exactly what he thought of that prediction.

Jon furrowed his brow. Daenerys told him what she saw, at least with concerns to their own son. If things went well he would have a daughter at least. “You don’t want any more children?”

“On the contrary, Snow, there’s nothing I’d like more than to litter the Tarth countryside with a whole pride of little blue eyed blonde cubs named Lannister, as many as Brienne is willing to give me.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Jaime took a long drink of wine, smacking his lips as he looked into the bright red liquid. “The problem is my children have a tendency of dying as soon as they’re old enough to rule over anything.” He took another swallow, emptying the cup entirely, before he clapped Jon on the shoulder and went back to his tall knight. 

Jon frowned at the older man for a moment before he went over to Daenerys and took her in his arms, inhaling her beautiful scent and nuzzling at her neck. A whisper of a moan escaped her lips as she turned in his arms. 

“Hello, My Lord,” she purred, draping her arms around his neck as he swayed her to the music. Jon smiled and pressed a kiss to her lips. 

“Hello, My Queen,” he muttered against her lips. “Do you know the Westerosi custom of bedding?”

“Mmm. Men undressing me, women undressing you, bawdy jokes, cheering us on from outside the door…”

He smiled rather sadly. “Doesn't sound like your idea of a good time?”

“No but I know the political implications of going without it. Without it there’s no proof the wedding has been consummated.”

His hand brushed against her belly. “There are other ways of proving it…” Daenerys grinned and put her hand overtop his for a moment before he pulled his hand away. “I could whisk you away now, carry you off in secret…”

“The lords will be disappointed.”

“They’re dining on free ale, free wine and free food… I think they can handle a little disappointment.” Daenerys laughed and Jon smiled, and that settled everything. He grabbed hold of her hand and then they were sneaking through the hall, desperately trying to stay hidden and unnoticed, a failed effort on each of their parts, walking faster and faster with each step. One of the more inebriated Lords realized what was happening and called out loudly, and then Daenerys picked up her skirts and she and Jon were racing out of the great hall and down the corridors, laughing and grinning all the while while the men booted and jeered behind them, reaching their chambers in record time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what comes after the wedding day? The wedding night 😏🔥


	30. The Wedding Night

The door had barely matched when Jon was wrapping her in his arms, and pressing a soft kiss to her soft lips. 

“My wife,” he sighed dreamily, and Daenerys smiled. It was the first time her husband called her that title and it filled her with love and joy rather than dread or annoyance. 

“My husband,” she whispered back, draping her arms around his neck. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Jon kissed her again, twirling her in his arms until his back was towards her. His fingers danced along the back of her neck and his hands followed the curve of her shoulders all the way down her arms. He reached up and began unlacing the elaborate gown, letting the layers of silk and lace fall to the ground and leaving his bride in nothing but a silky white slip. She closed her eyes as he began to unpin the elaborate braids, letting the silver locks tumble down past her shoulders.

Daenerys turned back around, gazing into the gray of his eyes for a moment before she began to undo the buttons and clasps lips on his jacket, pushing it off of his shoulders and running her hands over his chest, memorizing every raised and scar as if they were her own. Jon let his fingers trail at the edge of the silk for a moment before she raised her arms so he could lift it off her. Her stomach pouted out slightly, and her breasts had grown larger and Jon was looking at her as if she were the Maiden herself. He fell to his knees in front of her and laid a kiss on her bump. 

“I love you,” he whispered, nuzzling the soft stretched skin before he stood and took her in his arms again. “I love you too.” He grinned against her lips. “Wife.”

“Husband,” she purred with equal amusement. He picked her up in his arms and she wrapped her legs around him as he laid her on the bed, covering her with himself and combing through her silky hair with his calloused fingers. The way he was looking at her, as if she were the entire world, and all the suns and moons and stars filled with fire. Not one of intense burning exploding heat but a soft simmer that built slowly, starting in her core and climbing gradually until her head was swimming with thoughts of Jon and only Jon. 

He kissed her with gentle lips, touching her everywhere as if she was fragile glass, likely to break if he forgot himself and handled her too roughly. She moaned, and pressed her swollen breast into his hand as he caressed her, finding herself much more sensitive as of late then usual. Daenerys reached between them, undoing his breeches and pushing them down as far as she could reach before she used her feet to finish. He nestled between her legs and she settled back into the soft feather pillow, fire and ice gazing at one another.

“You’re warm,” Daenerys whispered, combing her fingers through his curls.

“But you’re trembling,” Jon breathed. “Are you alright?”

Tears filled her eyes at the question, the one Hizdahr and certainly never Drogo asked the night she became their bride. His thumb brushed them from her cheek when they fell down. Daenerys wrapped her arms around him. 

“I’m just happy,” she told him. She pulled his face to hers and kissed him. “You being the father to our son, our Trueborn son, makes me happy.” Tears of joy filled his eyes at the title their child would wear, and she brushed them away as gently as he brushed hers away. “You being my husband, and my Lord, and my King makes me happy. You, Jon Snow, make me happy.”

Jon began to pepper her face with kisses between words. “And you, Daenerys Targaryen, queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the mother of my child, and my wife, make me happy.”

He kissed her soft and slow and deep, and she moaned as his hand trailed up her soft and silky thigh before he grabbed it, hitching it up around him and rolling his hips against the heat of her core. Daenerys melted into his kisses and pulled him tighter against her until he was resting on top of her, leaving not an inch of space between them for even the Gods and every inch of flesh where one touched the other simmered and burned.

The tips of her fingers massaged his back, pressing into his muscles as he pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat before he began a slow melody of kisses up her neck and settling behind her ear, making her gasp, and press herself up into him. His hand left a trail of fire down her body, over her breasts and nipples, over her swollen belly and finally disappeared between her legs, combing through her well manicured silver curls. 

“Jon!” Daenerys gasped, her hips bucking against his hand as his finger encircled her clit. Her purple eyes closed and her fists clenched as he touched her, slowly letting his calloused fingers drag over the sensitive bundle of nerves. He kissed along her jawline to her neck, and her fingers twister into claws that dug into his back when he reached a certain point at the nape of her neck.

He slipped a finger inside her, and Daenerys bit her lip and as he slowly began the motions of moving in and out of her, going soft and gentle and slow, drawing slick moisture from her. She whimpered when he added another finger and a touch of more speed, stretching her just so and all the while his lips were pressed against hers, moving his tongue in time with his fingers twisted and danced within her. She locked her palm before she reached down and began to stroke, and he closed his eyes and buried his face in the crook of her neck, moaning as she worked his cock. He grew hard and smooth in her hand and when she ran her finger along the tip he jerked into her hand, and she moaned as it brushed against her heat.

Jon pulled his fingers out of her and she guided them to his lips so he could taste exactly what it was he did to her. He kissed her, dancing his tongue against hers and sucking on her bottom lip, grabbing himself and positioning it at her entrance before he pushed inside her heat.

Daenerys gasped and threw her head back as he filled her entirely, body and soul. He let her savor the feeling of him before he started to move. He was soft and slow, gentle but powerful and soon she was pushing up to meet his every thrust. His name from her lips as soft as a butterflies kiss, and she took his face in her hands, gazing into his eyes as he took her as a wife for the first time, and for the very first time in all three of her marriages Daenerys finally felt like a wife. 

Jon took his time with her, drawing out her pleasure as long as he could. It was not a hasty race to the top but a slow climb as he kissed her and moved inside her, and caressed her and loved her like only a husband could love his wife. His hands were buried in her hair, then on her breasts then between her legs, lighting wherever he touched on fire.

“My wife!” he gasped as he moved in and out, over and over again into her tightness, calling her the title she would cherish the most besides ‘mother’, and she whimpered, and threw her head back, moaning as he immediately took advantage of the new flesh exposed to his lips. She was so wrapped up around him that her feet were digging into the globes of his ass and she clutched at him tighter. “Call me by my name,” he begged.

“Jon!” she cried, and he shook his head.

“My real name…”

Daenerys opened her eyes, gazing into his eyes before she reached up and buried her hand in his hair.

“Daeron,” Daenerys whispered and he moaned, closing his eyes for a moment and thrusting into her as deep as she would allow. “Daeron.”

“Again…”

“Daeron,” the Queen moaned, over and over as he pushed into her. “Daeron… My husband…” she called him. “My husband. My dragon. My king.”

Jon leaned forward, letting his shaft rub up against her clit and she gasped and cried as the simmering fire finally came to a burning crescendo, and Jon roared as he followed, spilling his seed deep inside her.

She held him tight as he finished, not wanting to not feel him on top of her for even a moment. He rested his head on her breast as he fought to catch his breath, enjoying the slow strokes her fingers were making through his hair. A comfortable peaceful silence filled the room until she spoke in a soft whisper.

“Jon,” she called to him.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m hungry.”

He lifted his head off her breast and looked at her for a moment before he was laughing, and then she was and soon they both were. Jon pressed a kiss to her lips before he climbed off her and pulled on his breeches. “What does my Lady require?”

“Strawberries,” Daenerys said at once. And then a beat. “And a bowl of pork gravy,” she added, the thought making her mouth water.

Jon wanted to grimace, he could tell, but he held it back. Instead he just promised that he would get whatever she wanted. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, pressing a kiss to her lips before he pulled on a shirt and left.

Daenerys began to unplait her hair and by the time he was back with a plateful of the red fruit and a bowl of steaming gravy her hair was loose and long and full. She took her food and immediately dipped one of the strawberries into the gravy and popped it into her mouth, groaning with want. Yes, this hit the spot  _ exactly _ .

“Are you going to share?” he asked with a grin as he pulled off his clothes and climbed back in the bed. He reached for one of the strawberries and she pulled the plate away. 

“Unless you want to walk out of this room looking like the Kingslayer, these are mine,” she said with a mouthful of berry and gravy. 

Jon laughed before he nodded. “Understood, my Queen,” he said, taking her in his arms and letting her rest against his chest. “Understood.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, kind of a short one, but I really wanted to make her wedding night it’s own chapter by itself Bc Daenerys deserves romance and softness and her own wedding night chapter. Next chapter we get back into the plot AND I got something else coming for y’all in the next week or so…


	31. Chapter 31

**Jon**

The snow fell soft and fluffy on the ground, the men and women wearing them like a brilliant white crown. He strapped down the last of his saddlebags, clapping his horse on the read and pulling out an apple for the heavy black beast, a reward for standing still and allowing the rider to saddle him in the cold.

“You’re not riding a dragon south?” Tormund asked, amused as he approached. 

Jon chuckled and walked over to his friend. “Just a horse, and just to White Harbor. Rheagal needs to heal, he doesn’t need me weighing him down.”

It was an odd feeling, being so connected to a creature; knowing its feelings, it’s emotions, it’s pains, and whatever Jon was feeling was reflected in Rhaegal as well. He thought he was connected to Ghost but Rheagals and his bond seemed to be almost otherworldly.

Tormund smirked. “You weigh as much as two fleas fucking…nI’m taking the freefolk home.” The Wildling watched Brienne and Jaime walk back into the castle side by side, a light and joy in her bright blue eyes that she never wore when the bearded redhead looked at her. “We’ve had enough of the south,” he muttered, turning back to Jon. “And the women down here don’t like me.”

“This is the North, you know,” Jon said. “And the Free Folk are welcome to stay.”

“It isn't home,” he said sadly and softly. “We need room to wander. I'll take them back through Castle Black as soon as the winter storms pass. Back where we belong.”

“Sometimes where you belong can change. Sometimes home can change…” He looked towards Daenerys who was saddling her own white mare, looking ethereally beautiful as the snows danced along her and settled in her silver hair. “Sometimes home can be a person rather than a place.” He turned back towards Tormund. “This is farewell, then.”

“You never know.”

They wrapped each other in a tight bone breaking hug. 

“You've got the North in you, Snow. The real North. Don’t ever forget it, no matter what pretty little castle you and your wife rule from.”

Tormund took a deep breath and pulled away, clapping him on the shoulder before he left to head back inside before the snows became too bad. Jon turned and saw Sam and Gilly standing at the entrance, waiting for him. Jon walked over to the pairing and hugged Gilly, immediately pulling back and staring at her with wide eyes. She grinned and put a hand on the swollen stomach Jon had felt under all the furs. Jon looked towards Sam who was doing his best not to beam. 

“Yes, well, the nights have been getting longer and there wasn't that much to do in Oldtown. There's only so many books a person can read, so we-...”

“I'm sure he knows how it happens, Sam,” Gilly said with a smile. “If it's a boy, we want to name him Jon.

“I hope it's a girl,” he said, only half serious. Jon turned to Sam and hugged him tight.

“You're the best friend I ever had,” Sam sniffed, having a much harder time at holding back his tears then Jon.

“You too, Sam,” he muttered, clutching at his friends furs. When he was sure he could stay composed he pulled away and took a shaking breath. “We’ll see eachother again,” he promised, a vow to both Sam and himself. “I know we will.” He nodded to Gilly. “Get her inside where it’s warm.”

Jon had one last goodbye to say, the hardest one he would have to make. He made his way to the Godswood where Arya, Sansa and Bran were waiting for him. He took the smaller girl in his arms first, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Wet streaks fell down his cheeks that he quickly wiped away. “I love you, Arya,” he whispered softly. “So much.”

“I love you too,” she said, sniffing away her own tears. “Don’t forget about us.”

He pulled away and he kneeled on the cold wet ground and buried a gloved hand in her dark brown hair. “I could never forget my family, Arya,” he said in a choked whisper. “Ever.”

“You are far too annoying to forget,” Sansa added, earning a teary chuckle from Jon and a roll of her eyes from Arya but her lips crinkled into a smile. He stood and wrapped Sansa in a hug. “I’m repairing and renaming the First Keep,” she told him when they let eachother go.

“To what?”

“Nans keep.”

Jon smiled, nodding his head in eager agreement. “I think that’s a fine idea.” He worried at his lip as his eye caught sight of her necklace. “Is that new?” Jon asked, nodding at the charm that hung in the middle of the circle and sewing needle she often wore.

Sansa fingers came up and clutched the golden kraken with an opal pearl in its clutches. “Theon had it made for me,” she said, biting back a smile before her face fell. “Is that alright?”

Jon sighed, raising his brow at his sister. Ever the Highborn Lady, she wanted permission from her father to be in a relationship and since Ned was gone, Jon was the closest thing. He didn’t like the idea of Sansa being involved in ANY man, much less one who tried to take over their home and betrayed their brother, but there had been a noticeable difference in her behavior since the night Daenerys told Jon with a smirk that he would probably be seeing Theon around Sansa a lot more. The redhead was happier, yes, but there was less coldness when she spoke, there was more expression when she spoke, he was reminded of the girl she was rather than the woman her abusers forced her to become.

“Yes,” he finally said, agreeing to the pairing and granting permission for anything more that was to come, and she beamed. “It’s alright with me.”

She threw her arms around him and he hugged her tight. “If he ever mistreats you,” he whispered. “You tell me. I don’t care how far south I am, I’ll come back here and take care of it.”

“I know you will,” Sansa said before she pulled away. “But you won’t need to.”

He finally turned to Bran who gazed up at him, expressionless, cold, unfeeling. Jon hugged him all the same.

“The sea has washed away most of her doubt,” the younger boy muttered in his ear. “There is still some lingering. It will be decided by the end of the day but either way, she will not be the final test. That is still to come.”

Jon closed his eyes but didn’t bother asking him to explain, knowing cryptic riddles would be the only answers Bran would offer. He looked at his family for a moment. “I love you all. So much. I might be a dragon, but I am a wolf as well, my son will have part of the North as well, even if has the Targaryen name. If word leaks that Daenerys is not the true heir…”

“We know,” Arya said quickly. 

Sansa said nothing. Jon looked less than thrilled at her lack of a comment but at this point it was out of his hands. Sansa would either keep her vow, and keep him and his son safe or she would tell the secret their father kept for his entire life and endanger them all. 

He hugged them one last time, promising to see them all again before he turned and walked out of the Godswood. The men were all lined up, ready to follow Ser Davos who would be leading them down the Kingsroad. He looked back and saw the now one eared white direwolf standing beside the wall, red eyes big and wide, looking more like a sad dog then a wolf, waiting for his instructions. Jon put his fingers in his mouth and whistled.

“Come here, Ghost!” he yelled. The wolf bound over as quick he could, a doggy smile on his face and Jon kneeled down before him, scratching his ear. “You’re as much a part of me as Rheagal is,” he muttered as he put his soft white fur. “There’s no way you’re being left behind…”

Daenerys climbed atop her horse and trotted over to Jon when he climbed aboard his.

“Is everything alright?” she asked her husband. He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. 

“It is. Are you ready to go?”

Daenerys nodded. “Are you?”

Jon turned and looked at the great gray keep before he looked out at the kings road, the same road he left to travel years and years ago. Only this time he would not be traveling North to join the Nightswatch a bastard but he would be riding South as a king.

“Yeah,” Jon breathed, his words a gray chill in the air. He looked to Daenerys, his wife and his Queen, and smiled. “I’m ready to leave…”

**Sansa**

“The guards said you wanted to see me?”

Tyrion didn’t turn from the window he was staring at. “I did.”

“Is the Queen taking you with her?”

Tyrion shrugged, drowning his sorrows in a glass of wine, the first of many she wagered judging by the slight slur in his voice. “She doesn’t trust me here on my own. Not until the war is over and Cersei is gone.”

Sansa walked in the tower cell, shutting the door behind her. “Can you blame her for being angry? You lied to me about her.”

“I was trying to do the right thing,” Tyrion muttered. He gazed up at her with pale green eyes. “You’ve tried to do the right thing as well, and look how you were punished. Your friend was nearly killed, your titles were stripped away until I convinced her to give them back but even still the power goes to Bran, not you, and then if Arya has any sons they will rule Winterfell.” He chuckled humorlessly and took another king drink of wine. “Although I suppose you don’t need to worry about heirs anymore. You’d rather fuck a man without a cock then a dwarf.”

Don’t,” she warned him, but he ignored her.

“Guess I really am the bottom of the barrel.” Tyrion drained the rest of his cup and turned to the redhead. “Was I truly that awful? That you couldn’t have fathomed a single night with me?”

“I was a child.”

“And now?” he demanded. “What is your excuse now? I was always kind to you, Sansa, ALWAYS. I defended you against Joffrey, and any other man would have taken you your wedding night whether you willed it or not.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes. “You are not owed a woman just because you were decent to her,” she spat. “And if you were as kind as you say you are then you would not be angry at me for not wanting to be with you.” She made to leave but he called her back, and she reluctantly turned back around to him.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, I’m just… It’s been a long few weeks.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to be cruel,” she grumbled, wrapping her arms around herself. 

“You’re right,” Tyrion agreed. “You are right, I just… I’m frightened,” he said. “I don’t want to be burned alive.”

“You won’t be, she’s letting you keep Casterly Rock and the West.”

“Do you really think of her as a woman to keep her promises?” Sansa glanced down at her ground. “No,” he mused. “No, she may not have forced you to wed, she may have given the North back to your family, but I can see it in your eyes you do not trust her with your full confidence. What’s she planning, a little voice that sounds like Littlefinger and Cersei is saying to you. Why is she being kind? There’s some game here, and you are just as ensnared in it now as you were back when you trusted my sister and told her about your fathers plans to leave.”

“That’s not what this is.” Sansa hated the tears that dwelled in her eyes. “Me and Theon are happy, there’s no game afoot, there’s no plots or schemes.”

“Yes, the naive dragon Queen would just allow you to be with the son of one of her most feverish supporters without a plan…”

Sansa swallowed hard and she turned away from him, going up to the window and staring as most of the men rode south and a small collection rode east towards White Harbor. “You lied about her,” Sansa repeated. “You tried to force me-.”

“I lied to get you back in power Sansa. And I'd do it again, now that I've seen what I've seen. Her burning my closest friend alive, her willing to burn yours if you hadn’t bent the knee. I chose my fate. The people of King's Landing will not. They will not bend the knee as you have, and she will burn them all.”

Sansa swallowed hard, still not looking at him. He came over and stood beside her, looking out the window as well. “She liberated the people of Slaver's Bay. And she'll go on liberating until the people of the world are free and she rules them all, including the North.”

“Jon won’t let her,” she said stubbornly. “He won’t.”

“You’ve seen what happens when people tell her no.” 

A terror struck her deep in her heart. If Daenerys killed Jon, if he counseled restraint and she refused… But there was a way to prevent this. A way to save her brother, a way to save everybody. Tyrion quirked his head to the side as he looked at the redhead. “What?” he asked, searching over her face. “What are you hiding?”

Sansa swallowed hard, opening her mouth and closing it again. She could tell him that Daenerys was pregnant, that would make it so the baby was safe. Nothing would happen until after she gave birth… She could protect Jon, she could protect the baby, she could protect her home and the North...

“Sansa?” Tyrion prompted. “What’s the matter?”

Her hands shook as she clutched the stone windowsill. She watched as the dragons screeched and sang as they flew overhead. Great black and green beasts who could bring death and destruction down on anyone she wished, on anyone who disobeyed… Her blue eyes closed, she licked her lips, and began to open her mouth.

And then a sound lifted up from the grounds. She furrowed her brow at the familiarity of it. “Did you hear that?” she asked the dwarf.

“No, but Sansa what were you about to-.” She held up a finger to silence him, listening again. She heard it again, clearer this time, coming from outside the walls, from the wolfswood just outside the window. 

No… no it couldn’t be… She ignored Tyrion calling to her and she left the cell and passed the guards, hurrying outside where she followed the sound she hadn’t heard since she was a little girl. Sansa lifted her skirts and made her way into the woods, following the sound, gasping when she finally came across it.

“No,” she breathed, taking a cautious step towards the small white and gray direwolf puppy, tangled in the brush and crying and yelping as loud as she could, it’s mother dead and stinking and bloodied just a few feet away, evidence of a shadow cats claws gouging at its throat. Two other larger pups were trying to suckle, crying out just as loud as their sister when nothing came from the teets. 

Sansa kneeled besides the puppy whose leg was caught in the brush. “It’s alright,” she urged, working to untangle her foot. When the pup was free she began scratching at Sansa, whimpering and crying out until she picked her up and held her tight in her arms. “You’re alright, I got you…”

“Sansa!” she heard Arya cry, and a moment later her sister, pushing Bran through the snow burst through the wood, wide eyed and gaping jaw. “You heard it too?”

Sansa nodded, holding the pup even tighter. “There's three of them, they… Just enough, just like last time.”

Arya swallowed hard as she slowly approached, the other two pups. “Wha-... what do you think it means?”

Both girls turned to Bran for the answers. “It’s a gift,” he said sternly. “They will protect us, just as the first ones did.” He turned to look directly at Sansa. The intensity made her want to shudder and turn away. “But if you make the same choices as last time, you will lose them. If you allow fear to overwhelm your promises and vows, you will lose them. You will lose the North. You will lose our home. If we remember that we are Starks, if we remember that we do not betray our pack, if we keep our vows to the Old Gods… They will be ours.”

“But why?” Arya asked, picking up the second largest puppy and scratching it behind its ear. “Why now?”

Bran finally turned away from Sansa. Arya reached down and handed him the largest of the pups, the only male, and plopped it in his lap. “To help us remember. Whether they will or not; that is up to us.”

They made their way back inside the castle. The remaining Northmen gave them a wide berth, muttering under their breaths that it was an omen, a sign of what exactly, no one was sure. But Sansa knew. She took the puppy with her when she went to Tyrion’s cell again. 

“Lord Tyrion,” she greeted, holding the puppy tight in her arms. 

“Lady Sansa.” He walked over to her, stopping when the small soft puppy in her arms let out a small warning growl. Even at its tiny size, a man unused to wolves was reluctant to come near. “You found a new pet…”

“I did.”

“Congratulations are in order, I suppose. But you were about to tell me something?”

“No,” Sansa said softly, scratching the puppy behind the ear. “I wasn’t… I wish you good fortune, My Lord, in the wars to come.”

With a bow of her head and ignoring the defeated look on his face, Sansa turned and left, feeling more at peace, more of a Northman, and more of a Stark then she had in a very, very long time…

**Cersei**

“Our little birds from the North have said they left Winterfell three days ago. A small company including Daenerys and Jon Snow have left for White Harbor.”

“Probably to sail to Dragonstone,” Cersei mused as she walked along the edge of the painted map. “Euron will take his fleet and surround the island, they’ll never see them coming until it’s too late. What about the other men? Her savages and the northern traitors?”

“A bulk of their forces have traveled down the Kingsroad, with plans to stop at Riverrun and join up with the men there before continuing down to King's Landing.”

“Our men hold Riverrun,” Cersei told Qyburn “The Frays have it.”

“Not after his entire family was slaughtered. He abandoned the castle, and Edmere Tully took control of it again.”

“We still outnumber them though, correct? You just received the numbers today?”

“I did, Your Grace. Half of their entire force was wiped out, and a dragon is injured.”

“Then the Riverlands army is of no concern to me. It won’t matter how many men they have, a siege is a siege is a siege.” She stopped walking when she reached the North. “Any word on my brother?”

“Ser Jaime is alive.” Her face remained impassive, not showing a hint of feeling or emotion behind it. “He helped defeat the Nightking himself, along with the bastard of Winterfell.”

“Show off,” Cersei muttered. But even still, a feeling of relief stirred inside her. “When is Bronn going to return him to me? He had to have gotten to Winterfell by now. How long does it take to loose four bolts and kidnap a one-handed man?” When Qyburn didn’t answer she turned to face him. “What?” the Queen demanded. “What happened?”

“Daenerys found out what he was doing, she held a trial… I’m afraid Ser Bronn is no longer with us. Lord Tyrion was quite upset.”

“It was his only friend in the world, I would imagine so. But… no.” She shook her head. “This doesn’t make sense. If he was found out, that means the reason I sent him was found out, that means Jaime knows about the baby… Besides the war is over, why hasn’t he returned to me, at the very least?”

“I’m… afraid to report that Ser Jaime and a woman have been seen as growing quite close to the Evenstars daughter, Lady Brienne, in the weeks following the war.”

Her. The queen remembered the Maid of Tarth, a huge, ugly, shambling thing who dressed in man's mail. Jaime would never abandon me for such a creature.

But even still the beast hadn’t denied she loved him at Joffrey's wedding, and the way the two of them looked at each other in the Dragon Pit, the way she had the audacity to grab a hold of her other half…

“How _close_ do you mean to say my brother and the Maid of Tarth are?” the lioness snarled, hardly able to contain her rage.

“What I mean to say, Your Grace, is thanks to your brother many times over; the Maid of Tarth is not a maid any longer.”

Cersei was going to kill her.

Rage was not a word that could describe what was surfing through her, what was boiling over, what devoured her entirely without restraint. The world around her disappeared into a thick fog of blood red haze, and she began to tremble not with fear, but with an overwhelming fury that was beyond nearly anything she ever felt before. Her children and father did not choose to be taken away from her, but Jaime chose to leave, he chose to stick his cock in the Tarth girls ugly cunt, he chose to abandon his other half.

Jaime had no right to leave her. He was hers. He was Cersei’s, no one else’s. Every part of him belonged to her, body and soul. She owned him, she controlled him, he did not have the right to tell the queen no or make his own choices; certainly not the choice to fuck another woman. 

She would have that wretched beast killed a thousand times over. She would destroy her, her home, her House, her virtue… Septa Mundane, the midwife who lied to her about the health of her babe; the Mountains had been completely and utterly restrained compared to what she wanted him to do to Brienne, and she would make sure Jaime spent the rest of his life watching the undead brute punish his ugly little whore in ways that were too foul for even the Queen to imagine, and she could imagine plenty.

Qyburn stood cool and collected, patient and calm as ever in the face of her seething rage, well used to it by now.

“I charge Brienne of Tarth with treason and high theft of the crown,” she snarled. “You send Ravens to every cutthroat and every opportunistic man in Westeros, and you tell them whoever brings Lady Brienne to me alive will be rewarded with a Lordship over Tarth, the Stormlands and whatever else they desire. If they rape her first the price I’ll pay is double. If there’s a group of them who can stomach fucking the beast, I’ll triple it but she MUST be kept alive at all costs.” 

He bowed his head in submission and acceptance. “I’ll send out the word at once, Your Grace.”

Cersei stormed over to the Stormlands, glaring and snarling at the island and the brilliant blue water surrounding it. “Euron, he will take half his fleet there before he goes to Dragonstone. He will burn the castle and the island to the ground, he will rape and pillage every man, woman and child on the sapphire isle.”

“Your Grace, if I may?” Cersei said nothing so he continued. “You are already not well loved by either the Lords or the small folk. If you burn an entire island to the ground and pillage them all, they will rise up against you.”

“Not if I say it was the Dragon Queen. Her dragons burned the island, and then she allowed her Dothraki savages to rape and murder the people of the Sapphire Isle.”

Qyburns thin papery lips turned up into a smile. “Very clever, Your Grace.” 

“If they question why the shops were there I’ll tell them I sent Eurons fleet there to stop them but I was too late.” 

“Even better but I implore you not to forget that there is still a war you need to fight.”

“There will not be a war much longer,” Cersei muttered. “The dragon queen is weak, she cares far too much for the disgusting rabble who follow her, she cares too much for her newly made husband, if your little birds are to be believed. After Euron burns Tarth he will join up with the rest of his fleet in Dragonstone. If he is unable to kill the dragon queen then he is to bring me the bastard of Winterfell or the pretty little summer islander who is always following her around. She’ll bend the knee to save their lives, and afterwards I’ll give them all what the Targaryen girl claims to want her people to have more than anything.”

“What’s that, Your Grace?”

“Freedom, of course,” she purred. “I will give them freedom from their burdens, freedom from their woes, freedom from their miserable lives… But above all else, I promise to free Daenerys, her husband, her curly haired adviser, and every follower of hers souls from their wretched... little... bodies...”


	32. Chapter 32

The Queen closed her eyes as the salty sea air whipped through her long silver hair and the sounds of the earth far below fell on deaf ears. A lazy smile made its way on her pale beautiful face as she made her way over the beautiful blue oceans, the gentle rocking and swaying motions soothing the life growing inside her.

Daenerys loved this feeling more than anything else. She thought she found freedom on the back of the silver mare Drogon gave her but that was nothing compared to the feeling of soaring on Drogon, unchained from all others.

Up here she wasn’t the queen of the seven kingdoms, she wasn’t mysha, she wasn’t Aerys Targaryen’s hot tempered daughter, she was Daenerys. Just Daenerys, with no problems, no threats of green eyed tyrants, no wars, or battles to fight… Daenerys, just Daenerys, was flying without a care in the world. 

Right now Rheagal flew beside her, lower, faltering every so often and needing to work twice as hard to go half as far, but more often than not he would go and lay curled up on the deck of the ship where Jon was. It seemed to make the green beast feel better to be near him and on nights when Jon wasn’t with Daenerys he wouldn’t sleep in his cabin but would sleep besides the beast, him and the brilliantly white direwolf who, more or less, accepted that his master now had another great beast to care for besides him and grudgingly accepted the green dragon onto their small little pack.

But just as the dragons didn’t particularly like the North, Ghost did not care much for the South. On the warmer days he would lay below deck in the dark cold shadows, whining softly and barely eating unless Jon prompted him, and sat beside him petting and combing through his white fur all the while he ate.

It made Daenerys inexplicably emotional when she saw it. She watched Jon sitting beside the wolf petting him, talking soothing words to it, patiently urging him to eat, her hand cradling her swollen belly all the while.

“You are going to make a magnificent father,” Daenerys told him once, unexplained tears springing to her eyes as she watched him with his wolf. Jon had just smiled at his wife and went back to urging Ghost to eat the cuts of beef he got for him.

Daenerys looked out before her and off in the distance slowly coming into view she could see the calm bright blue waters surrounding Tarth and the lush green island at the center of it, like an emerald set into a sapphire. The long row of mountains that went down the center of it, each of them with large thick white caps that a less knowledgeable man might have mistaken for snow but Daenerys knew them to be the famous marble mines of Tarth, pushed upwards through the jade meadows like perky breasts on a maiden. The beaches were nearly empty seeing as the chill of winter was still in the air, even if there was no snow it was still too cold for swimming, but they were still as beautiful as any water she had ever seen with brilliant white sands and bright blue calm oceans surrounding the island. The waterfalls were roaring brilliant blue with sky white foam and the meadows were as green as anything she had ever seen before.

The true crown of the island though was Evenfall Hall. It wasn’t near as big as Dragonstone or Winterfell, but it was still a castle of considerable size and made entirely out of pristine white marble that shone as bright as a new penny in sunlight. The great white Keep stood on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the brilliantly blue sea, the castle as beautiful as their waters.

Daenerys urged Drogon lower, her dragon landing on the side of the ship and allowing her to climb off before he was off, rocking the boat roughly. In a year or so he would not be able to land on  _ any _ ship less they wanted to capsize. She made her way into her and Jon’s cabin, finding Jon packing up the last of their belongings. 

“We’re about to dock soon,” she told him. Her dress was much too tight and she groaned as she sat down on the bed. Jon furrowed his brow as he turned to her.

“You alright?” he asked and she nodded.

“My dress is just a bit too tight,” Daenerys said. “I wanted to get some looser fitting gowns at Winterfell but I was afraid people would realize what was happening.”

“Can you wear your Dothraki garb? That’s much more comfortable then your gowns aren’t they?”

“They are but the last thing I need is to show up wearing foreigners clothing. Cersei would capitalize on that in a heartbeat.”

Jon frowned before he kneeled before her and rested a hand on his stomach, caressing her softly. “Tell me how I can help,” he begged and Daenerys just smiled. 

“I think this is one thing I’m going to have to just suffer through until the end of the war. But when we dock I am going to need to wear your cloak. My furs can only hide so much.”

Jon nodded and planted a quick kiss on her forehead before he stood and continued packing up the cabin.

An hour or so later they were pulling up to the busy port. Ships with sails of nearly every House in the Stormlands were docked here as well as a few from the north and Daenerys even saw one or two sigils belonging to the River lords. Sails bearing strange magnificent beasts and colors from across the narrow sea were in port as well. Everywhere he looked there were fish wives were shouting the day’s catch, young green sailors were on their way to the brothel at the end of the port and hard grizzled captains bellowed and laughed at the crude jokes their fellows shared. The smell in the air was tropical and fragrant, with the smell of the sea and shore mixed in with the island's lush vegetation.

Daenerys walked off the port carrying Jon’s heavy cloak as though it were her skirts, ignoring the queer looks she was receiving from not only the dock workers but the people on the ship, and as soon as she could she had her horse brought up so she could mount it, looking much less conspicuous that way. She waited for Jon and Selwyn to mount up before they began the ride up to Evenfall.

The people in the port didn’t greet her with near the hostility that the North had, bowing respectfully as she rode past, but like the Northman they did give weary eyes to the Dothraki Bloodriders that traveled with them. There was much more variation of color amongst the people here then there had been in Winterfell though, and far less mistrust when they watched Missandei and Greyworm riding behind her. The reason why there was much less contempt and much less mistrust soon became abundantly clear.

The people of Tarth were far more used to seeing those from Essos than those in the North, and the reason was that not only did their ports see much more activity but she saw the tattoos on several of their cheeks of the dock workers working side by side with the Westerosi.

_ Escaped slaves _ , Daenerys realized when she saw the tattoos beneath their eyes and the red scars on their necks and shoulders from years of wearing the heavy leather collar, the same scars Missandei and the Dothraki healers bore. Tarth was only a short distance away from Tyrosh, where the masters and slavers were particularly cruel even by other masters standards. By Westerosi law, any slave that set foot on Westeros soil was considered free so if a slave were to escape in the dead of the night in a dinghy or stowed away in the bowels of a trading ship, Tarth was the closest island and port and the moment they stepped foot on the white sands, the former slaves were now freed men.

They rode up, up up the long path that took them through the bustling port and city of Sunfell until they reached the keep, the whole time Daenerys nearly struggled to breathe at the tight constricting clothes that were nearly suffocating. If Evenfall was beautiful at a distance, up close it was one of the most beautiful castles she had ever seen. Now that she was closer Daenerys could the sun and the moon in all its phases and stars and carved into the rock and you would be hard pressed to find so much as a chip or imperfection in any of the marble. The top of the torrents alternated rose and azure and everywhere she looked the flags bearing the celestial sigil of Tarth waved proudly in the wind. The building blocks of marble used to build Evenfall fit together so seamlessly you could feel along the walls for a hundred years and not once be able to tell where one block began and where the one beside it ended. There were no gargoyles or fierce beasts guarding the castle walls like the stone wolves who protected Winterfell but sideway facing sun’s and razor sharp crescent moons sharply jutted out along the edges to defend against those who would try to attack the shining smooth white keep.

After they handed off their horses to the stable boys they made their way inside, which was just as beautiful as the outside. Solid white marble arches inscribed with yellow suns and silver crescent moons guarded long halls of marble floors delicately streaked with gold and pale gray. Elongated windows lent a beautiful view of the sapphire colored ocean and allowed the sunlight to stream in and reflect off the smooth rock during the day and would have shown a magnificent view of the night sky dusted with stars during the evening. Woven tapestries of brave knights fighting Lysine pirates armored in rose colored steel holding the same marble hilted great sword Selwyn wore on his hip, ancient Evenstars of the past wearing soft pink and blue velvet with long pale blonde beards they could have tucked into their belts and young beautiful maidens in azure silks hung on the smooth marble walls, nearly all of the subjects sharing the same deep blue eyes that they passed onto to Selwyn and Brienne.

The Lord of Tarth led Daenerys and Jon to one of the chambers in the topmost towers. It was a beautiful room with a magnificent view of the sapphire oceans, a feather bed with white bedding and a sleek black marble fireplace with a neat stack of logs besides it. A wooden wardrobe stood tall against the wall, and a small table with two chairs sat beside the fireplace and a white marble bath sat tucked away in the corner, recently cleaned and ready for use.

“These chambers are marvelous, Lord Selwyn,” Daenerys complimented him as she looked around the room. “Thank you.” She sat down on the bed, failing to hold back a groan as the dress constructed tighter, and she swore she heard the fabric start to rip. Jon frowned again, looking defeated at what he couldn’t help before his eye glinted, and he turned towards Selwyn.

“Lord Selwyn, these chambers are truly beautiful. But I was wondering, perhaps, if you had something perhaps a bit less exuberant?” Both the Evenstar and Daenerys furrowed their brow at Jon.

“Forgive me, My Lord, but this is called the Kings Tower for a reason,” Selwyn told him, confusion edged on the polite response. “It’s where royalty or the Great Lords of Westeros have always stayed when they’ve come to visit the island.”

“And it is truly a sight, I’ve never seen a finer room. But I think it would set a better precedent if Daenerys were to stay in a less finer room, to show she is more grounded than Cersei. Perhaps your daughter's room?”

“I-... I mean, if the queen desires a less exuberant room,” Selwyn stumbled, looking from Jon to an equally confused Daenerys. “Certainly she could stay in Briennes chambers but it has not been cleaned out, all of her things are still there from before she left to fight for Renly.”

Jon just smiled and suddenly it clicked for Daenerys and she had to hold back a laugh as she grinned, and told the Evenstar that it would be just fine if they stayed in a room with his daughters clothes and wares… 

So Selwyn led them to another high tower with another remarkable view of the sea only this room obviously belonged to another.

The bed was smaller, and the bedding was traditional Tarth pink and blue rather than white as was the tub but it was much larger and longer than the one in the Kings Tower. It was so big in fact it could have fit Daenerys and Jon together side by side quite comfortably and then some. Daenerys expected weapons and armor to line the blue wall but apart from a blunted morning star used for tourneys there were very few, if any, signs that a warrior who could take down four men at once had lived there. Instead a bookcase full of romantic songs and stories and poetry filled an entire wall, and long ago someone had drawn a stag, now faded with age, on a Tarth banner that hung on her wall in the middle of the largest sun in the sigil, like what any love struck girl would have done when they dreamed about combining their house and the house of the man they loved. 

Two comfortable chairs sat in front of the fireplace, both of them a soft shade of blue with a table between them, an empty desk with a ladder back chair made its home in one corner and in another corner stood a tall wardrobe with the sigil of Tarth engrained on the doors that Daenerys hopes wouldn't be empty.

It was clear the room hadn’t been used in a while, and the servants had done the bare minimum to keep it clean, free of dust and from falling into disarray. 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay in the Kings Tower, Your Grace?” Selwyn asked again, and Daenerys waved him away with a smile

“These will do fine, Lord Selwyn, thank you.”

The Evenstar just shrugged, promised to send for them when supper was ready and left, shutting the door behind him. The moment the latch clicked Jon hurried to the wardrobe and opened the doors, beaming at the clothes that were slightly aged and would swim on the queen, but it would be something comfortable that wouldn’t threaten to strangle her and rip at the seams everytime she sat down.

“Take your pick, Your Majesty,” Jon said, and Daenerys laughed as she looked at the options a younger Brienne left her to choose from. “Now we just need to explain why the queen is wearing Tarth colors.”

“Respect for my host. Gods, I could wear one of these shirts and have it look like a dress…”

She pulled out a pair of breeches and immediately put them back, not really wanting to wear trousers that came up to her breast. Daenerys searched some more and finally came across one of the very few dresses Brienne had tucked away behind the rest of the shirts and trousers. It was a dark pink silk gown with golden suns decorating the skirts, loose fitting and more conservative than anything the queen ever wore before but when she pulled it on, she sighed in relief when she was finally allowed to breathe. She didn’t care how ridiculous she looked with an extra yard of fabric that pooled at her feet or the fact the long sleeves that went far past her wrists, her son wasn’t being squashed and was well hidden. That was the most important thing to her.

Jon was trying hard not to laugh at the sight, failing miserably and he had to catch himself once or twice before he spoke. “You told Missandei about the baby, yes?” Daenerys nodded. “Does she know how to sew?”

The adviser came in, not doing much better at hiding her laughs then Jon had, but an hour later the bottom of the gown had been hemmed, the sleeves were pinned back, and the long high collar had been cut away. It was still loose fitting and hid her stomach, but at least now it looked like something that might have been the queens rather than the borrowed dress of a woman a whole foot and then some taller than her. Missandei also curled and pinned her hair in a loose bun with loose pieces framing her face to match the loose casualness of the gown and soft silk.

Or at least that’s what Jon and Missandei told her. Daenerys could not see it herself considering there wasn’t a single looking glass anywhere in the chambers. The only reflective surface at all was the broken fragments of a mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door but that had long ago been shattered and the glass cleared away, the only evidence one had been there at all was the glass at the corners of the door and a lighter shade of wood where the mirror had been. 

Afterwards Daenerys thanked her adviser and when Missandei left, Jon and the queen went out to explore the grounds. The training yard was more or less the same as Winterfell but with more pink and blue armor than the plain armor of the Northmen, as were the stables and kennels. But there was no godswoods, no white hearttree, no woods at all. A large city sat in the shadow of the keep and just a short walk from the castle was the famous oceans the island got its nickname for, including a private beach for the Evenstar and his family. The queen and Jon walked along the beach hand in hand until she grew tired and she sat down in the sands and rested against her Jon’s chest, watching the sun dip low below the horizon, the reds and pinks and oranges reflecting off the blue water.

A warm comfortable silence spread out for a moment before Jon shifted. For a second Daenerys thought he was uncomfortable but then he pulled out a careworn book that had been on Brienne’s bookshelf. ‘Poetry from the Seven Kingdoms’ it was titled, and it had been read quite often judging by the dogearred pages. 

“Who knew the fearless knight is a romantic at heart,” Jon mused as he flipped open to a random page. 

“People can surprise you,” Daenerys said as he wrapped his free arm around her, and she nestled in closer to him. Jon was silent as he flipped through the pages before he stopped, cleared his throat, and began to read.

“ _ Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly _

_ Their beauty shakes me who was once serene; _

_ Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. Only your word will heal the injury _

_ To my hurt heart, while yet the wound is clean. _

_ Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly; _

_ Their beauty shakes me who was once serene. Upon my word, I tell you faithfully _

_ Through life and after death you are my queen; _

_ For with my death the whole truth shall be seen. _

Lord Geoffrey Chaucer.”

Slow tears made their way down her face. She closed her eyes as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“I love you,” he whispered, and she sniffed and proclaimed her love as well. Jon flipped to another page and started to read again.

“ _ Love is a ripe plum _

_ Growing on a purple tree. _

_ Taste it once _

_ And the spell of its enchantment _

_ Will never let you be. _

_ Love is a bright star _

_ Glowing in far Southern skies. _

_ Look too hard _

_ And its burning flame _

_ Will always hurt your eyes. _

_ Love is a high mountain _

_ Stark in a windy sky. _

_ If you would never lose your breath _

_ Do not climb too high. _

Ser Langston Hughes.”

“The baby likes this,” Daenerys told Jon as gentle as he spoke. She took his hand and rested it on her belly. “He likes the sound of your voice.”

“He does?” 

She smiled at the joy in his voice and wiped away the last of her tears. “He does. You make him calm, he knows exactly who you are.”

Jon kissed the top of her head and lazily flipped through the book again, pausing on another. “This ones marked,” he told her, showing her the page where a blue ribbon had been used as a book marker. Teardrops long since dried had smudged the ink but the words were still legible. 

“ _ I love you for what you are, but I love you yet more for what you are going to be. _

_ I love you not so much for your realities as for your ideals. I pray for your desires that they may be great, rather than for your satisfactions, which may be so hazardously little. _

_ A satisfied flower is one whose petals are about to fall. The most beautiful rose is one hardly more than a bud wherein the pangs and ecstasies of desire are working for a larger and finer growth. Not always shall you be what you are now. You are going forward toward something great. I am on the way with you and therefore I love you. _

Maester Carl Sandberg.”

Daenerys wanted to weep but she held strong and fast. Instead, she begged him for none others that the Lady of Tarth had marked as meaningful to her. It felt like a violation of privacy, even if they weren’t Briennes own words the queen argued and Jon agreed.

They stayed out there the rest of the night, him reading her poetry and his voice taking her to a faraway place where there were no wars to win, no battles to fight, no lands to rule, no men to turn to corpses. Eventually one of the servents came to tell them that supper was ready and they were forced to leave their little peaceful spot and make their way back to the castle. 

They received a raven from Yara saying she and her fleet would be arriving at the Sapphire Isle the day after Daenerys’ did so the grand feast would be held on the morrow. Tonight it was a small supper in the Evenstars private dining hall with Daenerys, Jon, Varys, Selwyn, Missandei and Greyworm. It was a beautiful room they were summoned too. The sigil of Tarth had been chiseled and painted flawlessly into the blocks of white rock behind the long blue streaked marble table. Torches littered the wall and a blue crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling filled the room with the soft glow of candlelight, and each chair alternated blue and pink with either a sun or the moon on the back of it, with the head of the table a tall marble chair decorated with moons and suns and stars. 

Selwyn raised his brow at the unusual choice of dress the queen wore but said nothing about it and instead just welcomed her to supper. Daenerys sat down besides Jon and her mouth watered at the sight in front of her. A delicious warm fish stew with leeks, carrots, barley, and turnips white and yellow, along with clams and chunks of cod, swimming in a stock of heavy cream and butter and crusty trenchers of bread to serve it in, and a salads of sweetgrass and apples, nuts, and raisins sat before them.

“We ask the Father to judge us with mercy accepting our human frailty,” Selwyn began as Jon and the rest of the natives from Esoss reached for the stew, bowing his head. They all quickly put down their fork and folded their hands, trying to ignore the delectable smells of food wafting towards them. “We ask the Mother to bless our crops, so we may feed ourselves and all who come to our door. We ask the Warrior to give us courage in these days of strife and turmoil…”

Her stomach was growling by the time he finished and she wasted no time in devouring the stew. 

“Your home is absolutely exquisite, My Lord,” Missandei said after she swallowed a bite of salad. 

“Thank you,” Selwyn smiled. 

“You can’t find marble like this in Essos, none that I’ve seen at least.”

“That’s because most of the reputable houses refuse to do trade with slave cities. You see long ago, long before Aegon stepped foot on our shores,” Selwyn began, “King Durran, king of the Stormlands, visited Essos. As the story goes a young slave girl gave birth when he was there. The baby was stillborn and the master of the house murdered her on the birthing bed. When the Stormking confronted him about the cruelty, he said it was her second stillborn. The master told him, ‘would you keep a broodmare who couldn’t give you a filly?’ Durran killed the master in blind fury and sailed back home, afterwards forbidding all of the Stormlands from doing trade with the slave cities. He began a crusade for all of Westeros to stop doing trade with cities who permitted slavery in their borders and that is why Westeros, for the most part, will not do trade with the slave cities and has not for thousands of years.”

“Forgive me my lord,” Jon said, “but I believe you’re mistaken. It was King Brandon Stark who visited the Master and saw the murder of the slave girl. He placed the master under arrest and took him back at to Westeros where he held a trial and the man was found guilty of murder. After that Brandon forbade the North to do trade with any slave cities and the king in the North started the crusade against trading with slave cities.”

“The way the small folk tell it,” Varys said in his soft soothing voice, “is the mother slit the masters throat and fled his home minutes after her baby was born knowing what would happen if she stayed. She escaped to Westeros and  **SHE** began the crusade, convincing nearly all the Great Houses not to do trade with the slaver cities. Afterwards she married a handsome shepard, settled down somewhere in the Reach and had eight healthy children with her adoring husband.”

Daenerys smiled. “I think I like that version the best…”

After supper was over they made their way back to Briennes former chambers where all of their things had been brought up. She and Jon took a bath together in the massive tub, and afterwards they climbed into bed, holding one another tight, the exhaustion of the day wearing on them greatly. 

Tonight had been gentle flying on Drogon and poetry and sunsets and a fine meal. Tomorrow would be planning war and preparing for a siege, they would need their sleep. Daenerys fell asleep, warm and content in his arms and the sounds of the oceans gentle waves crashing against the shore. 

What felt like moments later she was being shaken awake by one of her Unsullied. “Your Grace!” he yelled, “wake up!”

She and Jon flew out of bed, confused and disoriented. There were no gentle rolling waves or the peaceful sounds of the island. Instead there were screams and yells and the crashing of steel against steel. Outside the window was the bright burning orange and menacing light of flames… 


	33. Chapter 33

Jon jumped out of bed, hurrying to pull his trousers and shirt.

“What’s happening?” he demanded as he handed Daenerys the pink silk dress. An explosion rocked the marble keep. “Who are they? Pirates?”

“They’re on the wrong side of the island for that,” Daenerys said as she looked out the window, almost eerily calm as she looked down at the swarm of men hurrying onto the island. “It’s Euron Greyjoy’s fleet.” She turned to Jon, hate blazing in her eyes. “Cersei knew I would be here. Somebody betrayed me.”

“We can worry about that later,” Jon took her by the arms. “Right now we need to get you to safety.”

She shook her head. “I need to get to Drogon.”

“We don’t know if they have scorpions or not.” 

The queen took one last look out the window before she turned and fled the room with Jon in front of her and the guard that came to rouse them in the rear. They hurried down the stairs, his sword raised high, his heart pounding harder the closer they got to the screams and singing of steel and shouts. A Tarth knight ran by them gasping for air and holding a red sword. Jon grabbed hold of his arm and swung him around to face bum.

“How many?” he demanded.

“I don’t know, M’lord,” the knight answered, voice trembling slightly. “20 ships? They’re flying the kraken sigil so we- we thought they were Yara’s but then they started with the canons, and- and the catapult with the fire… Then when they came ashore-!”

Daenerys held up her hands in an effort to calm him. “Ser, listen to me… where is Lord Selwyn?”

“On- on the beach, Your Grace.”

Jon thanked him and sent him on your way. The three of them made their way outside and the young king swallowed hard as he looked around what had been a peaceful silent beach just hours earlier was now a blood stained tapestry of war. Bodies littered the shore, and ships in the distance were launching cannon balls and flaming artillery at the castle. Ironborn were fighting to come ashore from their dinghys, many of them shocked at the resistance they found themselves facing when they reached the shore. Evenfall was standing strong against the assault, but what was once pristine white marble was now covered in black scorch marks. The outside would hold, Jon realized as he watched the catapults launch their fodder uselessly at the castle, barely making a dent in the stone. Marble doesn’t burn. But the rafters and the floors were made of wood, and the lush meadows and vegetation past the sea would catch fire as easily as dry timber. Flames took root around the castle, and soon smoke began pouring from the windows of the grand and beautiful keep. A few of the raiders had managed to get past the beaches and were laying waste to the seaside city, setting the wooden homes to torch, raiding and reaving and raping and killing anyone in their path.

Jon saw Selwyn at the edge of the battlefield, swinging his great sword with the ease a smaller man might wield a dagger with a loud screaming grunt with every swing as blood trickled down from a nasty fast in his forehead. For any other man it would have been considered cowardice and for a moment that’s what he thought it was, but then Jon realized that he wasn’t looking for glory or a song to be named for him. The Evenstar was the last thing between the city in the shadow of his keep and the invading Ironborn, and doing his best to protect his people. Jon and Daenerys hurried over to the large man just as he cut a man nearly in half with a furious screaming grunt.

“GET HER OUT OF HERE!” Selwyn roared when he spotted the queen.

“Where can she go?!” Jon yelled over the sounds of battle. The Evenstar ran over to them, pushing the sweat soaked straw colored hair from his brilliantly blue eyes. 

“There’s a command camp,” he told the queen. “Deep in the mountains, one of the knights will take you up there. Ser Matthos!”

Daenerys shook her head as a large knight in blue armor raced over to them. “No, I won’t abandon my people.”

“The best thing for your people is for you to survive. Take her to the camp,” he ordered the young knight. “Keep her safe.”

“Missandei,” Daenerys breathed, looking around the battlements. “I don’t know where she is.”

“Grey Worm won’t let her out of his sight,” Jon promised. He laid a hand on her swollen stomach and she immediately covered it with one of her own. “There is only one person you need to worry about keeping safe right now.” He took her in his arms and kissed her deeply, pouring every ounce of love he had for her and the life inside her into what could be their last kiss. The knight Selwyn designated as her guide took the queen by the arm and the two of them ran off. He kept his eyes on her until the very last moment when she ran off into the dark. 

Jon turned back to the battlefield and began to fight alongside the Evenstar, the last shield that protected the burning city behind them. Swords clashed, steel sang and men screamed as Jon whipped Longclaw through the air, a grey and silver blur. The salt water rusted swords were no match for Valyrian Steen but the men were hard and seemed to fight with the strength of ten. Flaming arrows were raining down around them, both from the ships and from atop the castle walls and more than once they were so close that the fires scorched his clothes. He dodged arrows and throwing axes and any man who came near him drowned in blood and died on the sands. The Evenstar was fighting as fiercely besides him, letting out loud audible grunts which almost could have been a scream with every swing. Selwyn wasn’t the fastest swordsman alive but by the Gods he was STRONG, and his great sword which had been as long as Ice cut through opponents as easy as if they were made of butter rather than bone and flesh. 

When they had a half a moment to breathe Selwyn turned to Jon. “Get up to the camp,” the tall man told him in a no nonsense tone. “Tell one of the knights to lead you up, then you two get on your dragons and get out of here.”

“You want us to leave you?”

A smirk pulled at his thick lips. “You think this is the first time Tarth has been raided? Myrish or Summer Islanders or Ironborn, it makes no difference to us, invaders are invaders but our queen has suffered far too much to suffer a loss as needlessly as yours would be.” He nodded towards the mountains. “Go, my men can handle this.”

He was about to agree. He was about to turn and head into the hills to find this camp the Evenstar told him about. But when Jon saw the black haired man kneeling behind a rock, and he saw the wooden crossbow take aim, he froze as the man loosed the bolt and struck Lord Selwyn. 

The iron bolt punched through the Evenstars throat and out the back of his neck. He fell to his knees and grasped the crossbow bolt, as if to pull it from his throat, but his strength was gone. 

“Br-!” Selwyn gasped as the blood gurgled up through his mouth and the hole in his throat. “Brie…! Brie...!” And then he died struggling to speak, drowned on his own blood. 

The man fumbled as he hurried to load again. Jon grabbed one of the throwing axes at his feet and whipped it with as much strength as he had, embedding the sharp steel between the archers eyes and dropping him like a hot stone. Jon picked up his sword and was fighting and screaming and slashing, the blood turning the white sands red as he protected the city. He turned too slow though, and an ax from thrown from somewhere in the darkness embedded itself in his thigh and he stumbled, but forced himself to stand and swing his sword at the raiders. One of them punched, another kicked, and the blood gushed from his nose and his eye immediately began to swell and close. An arrow pierced him in the arm, and another followed moments later in his chest and Jon cried out as he fell to the ground, clutching at the shafts. His vision was hazy, and the world around him swam violently. Just as he was about to let darkness overtake him, he heard it.

The familiar screeching. The ear shattering roaring. It filled him with hope, and a moment later he saw his queen's beautiful black beast flying over the marble castle and began to bathe the Ironborn in fire, its riders' silver hair shining bright in the light of the moon and flames. A moment later Rheagal was following, but he did not follow Daenerys to the ships. Instead he landed besides Jon and threw his head back, screaming and shooting a jet of flames a hundred feet into the air. He turned and began to devour the enemy in fire, and the screams were hideous and terrifying and had Jon not been on the verge of blacking out the smell of roasted men would have made him gag. But then he saw the Evenstar laying dead beside him, blue eyes wide and unseeing, and he remembered how his last words were used to cry out for his daughter who just lost the last member of her family. After that; Jon no longer found it in himself to care much for the burning men, and he hoped that the pain was not over as quickly as Daenerys said it would be. 

He turned his head towards the shore as an explosion erupted, and his heart sank when he saw more krakens on the sails. But then he noticed these men weren’t firing on the Keep, or sending men to destroy the city. They were firing on the other ships in the bay, and their men were coming ashore to fight along the small number of unsullied and Dothraki, and the Tarth knights. 

The cry of ‘retreat!’ echoed around him, barely heard over the should of screams, both from those Daenerys burned and the ones the Ironborn were killing. Men were running past, half burnt and whole alike, and two of them stopped besides a half conscious Jon, with one looking down at him. 

“Isn’t that-?”

“Come on!” his friend yelled, grabbing hold of his arm. “We gotta go!”

“But the queen, she said a man with black curls-.”

“The queen didn’t mention nothing about no fucking dragon! I ain’t getting burned alive because of that crazy cunts jealousy! Now let’s  _ go!” _

_ What jealousy? _ Jon wanted to ask,  _ why didn’t you think there would be dragons? _ But the world grew dark and he never got the chance.

When Jon awoke he was no longer on the blood stained beach but in a ship's cabin. He groaned low in his throat, and a moment later soft gentle hands were placing a cool cloth across his forehead. His eyes fluttered open and he saw Daenerys sitting beside him. Her eyes were rimmed in red, and her silver hair was in disarray.

“Dany,” he breathed, reaching out to her. She took hold of his hand and brought it to her cheek, nuzzling against it. He felt tears fall down her cheek and he wiped them away with a brush of her thumb. 

“I almost lost you,” she sniffed, lip trembling. “Havi saved you but for a moment…”

“Why didn’t you go to safety?” he asked, unable to find it in himself to be angry with the rescue. “We didn’t know-.”

“I didn’t care,” she told him. “I had to save you. I had to save everyone.” Her lip trembled. “But I failed. The Evenstar is dead. Evenfall has fallen. And someone betrayed me. We didn’t tell anyone we were going to Tarth apart from those in the meeting. Sansa… she was the only person in that room against me.”

Jon sat up, his body protesting at the simple movements. “Daenerys-.”

“No one else would have told Cersei of my movements,” she protested. “She’s the only one who knew who would have wanted to see me fall.”

“Tyrion,” Jon argued. “He was there too.”

“Tyrion has been locked away and guarded ever since the night I executed Bronn. He could not have sent a raven.”

Jon swallowed hard and shook his head. “I don’t-... Daenerys, her sworn shield's father was murdered, her home destroyed and her people raped and murdered. This would have been the last thing she wanted.”

“The archer was probably aiming at you.”

“The Ironborn can hit a shaft through a rabbits eyes at a hundred yards, he wouldn’t have missed if I was the target. One of the Ironborn said-.”

“I don’t care what they said!” Daenerys roared. “I don’t care if it’s your sister! Sansa betrayed me and I swear by all the Gods I will end her for this!”

Jon’s face fell as he searched over her face. This unquenchable fury was not because of a burned castle or a dead Lord, even if he was her cousin. “What happened?” he asked, his voice laced with terror. “The baby? Drogon?”

She shook her head, and more tears streamed down her cheeks. “Missandei,” Daenerys whispered, grief and rage and fear soaking her expression and words. “They have her...”


	34. Chapter 34

**Daenerys**

She paced the floor of Yara’s cabin, the largest in the great ship that they all were gathered in. Outside the screams of the dragons echoed and sang across the Narrow Sea and Daenerys wanted nothing more then to climb aboard him and fly to the Red Keep and bathe Cersei in flames before she took her dragons north and showed Sansa what REAL power looked like.

“They have Missandei,” Daenerys muttered as she stared out the window at the great blue-green ocean. 

“That may be but we must stick to the plan,” Varys argued. “It’s our best shot of getting the people to turn on Cersei.”

“But if she already knows our plans what’s to stop her from preparing for the siege or sending her men north?” asked Jorah

Yara shook his head. “She cannot beat Dothraki or Unsullied in the field, even Cersei has to know that.”

“We stick to the plan, we let the siege play out. If we do then we can-.”

“They have Missandei!”

Every eye turned to the queen who was doing her best to hide the tears burning in her eyes as she turned to them, hating their pity but despising their fear even more. Her best friend, her adviser, the first one she ever freed was back in chains and she had a right to be angry about it. “The only thing we need to do is focus on getting her back.”

“Cersei needs to be destroyed, but if we attack King's Landing with Drogon and the Unsullied and the Dothraki, tens of thousands of innocents will die,” Varys argued. “That is why Cersei is bringing them into the Red Keep. These are the people you came here to protect. I beg you, Your Grace. Do not destroy the city you came to save. Do not become what you have always struggled to defeat. I understand your worry for your friend, Your Grace, but we cannot put the war effort on hold for one woman,” Varys said, soft silky voice dripping in sympathy

“I am the queen! I lead this war effort, I tell you what you put it on hold for!” Daenerys spat. “She’s had her for a week and all we have done is sit here on this ship talking about what we should do rather than trying to save her!”

“How did she even know to target Missandei in the first place?” Yara asked looking between the faces of those gathered around the table.

“She’s been by the queens side since the Plaza of Pride and she was with Daenerys at the Dragon Pit,” Jorah offered. “Any half-decent spy would report back how much Daenerys cares for Missandei. If Cersei wanted hostages, she would be the easiest to identify and take seeing as she doesn’t know how to wield a sword or dagger. 

“Little birds in the east did sing of her when they realized she was more than just some handmaiden,” Varys confirmed. 

“I think the queen targeted me  _ and _ Missandei,” Jon said. “Two of Euron’s men, they stopped near me. One of them said something about the queen mentioning a man with black curls.”

“So why didn’t they take you?”

“They wanted to retreat when Drogon came.” He looked towards Daenerys. “That’s what doesn’t make sense, they were unprepared for the dragon, it took them by surprise. The entire resistance seemed to shock them.”

“Not to mention that was only about half of Euron’s fleet,” Yara added. “If you’re fighting two dragoon’s you bring your entire arsenal. Plus none of the ships had weapons built for the dragons.”

“Also one of them said something about not dying for Cersei’s jealousy…” 

“Something isn’t adding up here,” Jorah said. “None of this makes any sense.”

“I don’t care what makes sense and what doesn’t. Cersei knew we were going to Tarth and now they have Missandei.” Daenerys turned and looked directly at Jon. “Someone betrayed me, and that person is responsible for whatever happens to Missandei. I  _ promise _ whoever it was will face my wrath a thousand times over.”

Jon opened his mouth and closed it, looking around the room at all the rest of the faces of the gathered council. “May I have a word alone with you, Your Grace?”

She gave a curt nod and quickly they all left. Daenerys told Jorah to check on Grey Worm who had been dragged out of the woods, head bloodied and unmoving. That was when they learned what happened, that when he was getting her out of the smoke and fire filled castle they came across a group of Ironborn by chance. Eight on one, with an unarmed woman he needed to protect as well as his own life… Even the commander of the unsullied didn't stand a chance in those odds.

When the door shut behind the last man Jon took a deep breath, keeping his eyes locked on the table in front of him. “I do not believe Sansa betrayed you,” he finally said.

“She was the only one who was against me who knew we were going to Tarth.”

“She kept her word. She didn’t tell anyone who I really am. All those chances, and she kept silent. Why would she tell our plans to Cersei knowing it puts me in danger?”

“Because she doesn’t care about anything but power! Cersei takes the two of us out, that’s two more less people she needs to compete with!”

“Brienne’s family and home is destroyed, she wouldn’t have wanted that. Plus they mentioned something about jealously, it just-... I don’t think it was Sansa.”

“Sansa was willing to have Brienne burned alive for her titles,” Daenerys spat. “She sees her as nothing more than a glorified bodyguard to her. If the cost of me out of the way is her sworn shields family and happiness then she would sacrifice it in less than a heartbeat, just as she would sacrifice Missandei.” The queen felt the tears well in her eyes, of rage and grief. “I’m sick of it,” she muttered. “I’m sick of Westeros, I’m sick of fighting, I’m sick of your sister, I want to go home.”

Jon stood and wrapped her in his arms. Her arms hung down at her side. “You will be sitting in the Red Keep by month's end.”

“I’m not talking about the Red Keep. I want to go home to Essos.” She pulled away from her husband. “I don’t care who sits on the throne, the whole country can burn for all I care.”

“Don’t say that.” Jon took her face in his hands. “Don’t. Westeros is YOUR country, these people are yours.”

She didn’t tell him that right now if wildfire engulfed every single Westerosi, Daenerys wouldn’t lose a single wink of sleep. “You have worked and sacrificed and struggled so hard for this.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to be queen. I don’t want to rule over these people, I don’t want anything to do with this country anymore.”

Jon rested his hand on her stomach. “This is our son's country. Our son will be king. Don’t take this away from him. If you abandon them now, they will not accept either of you.”

Daenerys yanked away from him, glaring. “My son will rule whether or not they accept him or not!” 

Jon’s face fell. “Our son…” 

Daenerys swallowed hard and turned away from him, staring back out the window again. “I want to be alone,” she told him. “Leave me.”

She expected him to hear the opening and closing of the cabin door, expecting him to walk away, to let his fear of the ‘mad queen’ overwhelm the love he had for his wife. But instead he came over and wrapped his arms from behind her. 

“That is the one command I cannot follow. I will not leave you,” he told her in a soft gentle voice. “Not now. Not ever. You will not face this alone.” He turned her in his arms and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I am with you, Daenerys. Always.” He brushed his lips against hers and she melted into the kiss. Jon held firm, and strong, never relenting, never letting her go. Just as they were about to deepen the kiss there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she called once she wiped away her tears. Yara walked in in the cabin, holding a small rolled scroll that she handed to the queen. A Lannister lion greeted her on the red wax. Daenerys looked towards Jon and then back to the scroll before she broke the seal and read the tiny handwriting.

“Cersei wants a meeting,” Daenerys muttered. “No dragons, no armies. She said if she-... if she sees any hint of Drogon or Rheagal she’ll kill Missandei… Send a raven back asking for a time and place.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

When the Ironborn went to leave Daenerys reached out and grabbed her by the wrist. “Tell Cersei that if any harm comes to Missandei, if so much as a hair on her head is touched… Tell her that I will burn her, her brother and her city to the ground.” 

**Missandei**

_ I am not a slave. I am in chains but I am not a slave. I am free. I am free. No one can take my freedom away from me. Daenerys promised no one would take my freedom away from me ever again. I am not a slave. I am free. I am free. I am free. _

Missandei repeated the mantra over and over in her head, as many times as she could. When she bound with rope and gagged, when they dragged her kicking and screaming off the island and rowed her to the ship, when they carried her to the belly of the ship and tied her to a wooden post, she told herself again and again that she was free. A hostage is not a slave. A hostage is not a slave.

She could hear the roar of Drogon, could hear the explosions of the ships around her and she swallowed hard, praying to the Lord of Harmony to tell Daenerys not to strike the ship she was on, to protect her Queen and the prince inside her and Grey Worm and Jon. He must have heard her prayers because the ship she was on was unscathed, and they were allowed to sail away without injury.

When they were well enough away and she could hear nothing but the crashing of waves. The sailors were oddly quiet though. When she sailed with Yara on the way to Westeros the Ironborn were loud, yelling orders and commands across the deck at one another. Here there was an eerie silence from most of them, except for one man.

Missandei heard footsteps on the wooden stairs leading down to her prison, and the lantern he was holding illuminated his ragged ratty face. She swallowed hard as the man who eyed Daenerys in the Dragon Pit came down to meet her, but she kept her gaze hard as he kneeled down in front of her.

“Aren’t you a pretty one?” Euron purred, pushing a curl from her face. “I’ve never been with a summer Islander before…” He laid a hand on her thigh. “What do you say we change that?”

_ I’m allowed to say no. I can say no now. He doesn’t own me. No one owns me, I don’t have to be with him if I don’t want to. I am not a slave. I am free. _

“Leave me alone,” Missandei told him, hating how her voice trembled. 

“Oh come on now. I don’t normally see many girls aboard my ship, especially pretty little foreign things like you.” Euron nuzzled the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. His lips brushed against her smooth, soft flesh.

_ I am not a slave. I can say no. I can say no.  _ “I said, leave me alone. I don’t want to do this.” His hand began to slip up her skirts.  _ I can say no. I can say no. I can say no. I can-. _

“NO!”

A sickening crack filled the room as Missandei slammed her head against his face, smashing his nose in with her forehead and sending him wheeling backwards. Euron put his hands to his nose, pulling them away covered in blood. He wheezed a high pitched breathy laugh and the dread grew.

“You are a FEISTY one!” he shouted, grinning wildly. The blood ran thick and wet down his face. “I LIKE that!” He sighed and stood up, looking down at the blind woman. “As fun as it would be, Cersei would have my cock made into a crown.” Euron leaned down and pressed his lips to the top of her hair. “Maybe later.”

Without another word he turned and left and headed up the stairs. The moment she was alone and plunged into darkness, she let a tear fall down her face and then another before she sniffed and forced them away. Two tears. That was all they would get from her. One for Daenerys and one for Grey Worm.

That was all.

She was left well enough alone the rest of the journey into Blackwater. Mute deckhands came and gave her moldy bread and stale water, but that was all the interaction she had and she did not see Euron again. When they pulled into the Blackwater Bay, her heart began to pound harder then. She was cut free and taken to the deck where she was shackled in irons. Missandei closed her eyes as the heavy chains chafed at her wrists, but no more tears would come. She already shed her two, they received no more.

_ A hostage is not a slave. A hostage is not a slave. I am free. A hostage is not a slave. _

She stumbled through the deck and off the ship. The city of King’s Landing was as bustling and busy a city as any in Essos, and far more crowded than Meereen. Hardly anyone gave a man dragging a woman in irons towards the castle in a second look. 

The Red Keep was as magnificent as anything Missandei saw before. It was grander than Winterfell, taller and larger, but far less ancient, and its bricks were a brilliant beautiful red rather than gray stone. It made her want to weep when she saw the castle before her Queen.

Euron guided her inside the throne room, and she swallowed hard when she saw Cersei sitting on Daenerys’ throne. He threw the curly haired girl down before the lioness, and Cersei’s lips curled into a sneer. “So much for the ‘Breaker of Chains’...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, I’m sorry you guys ☹️


	35. Chapter 35

“Jonquil. Jonquil, sit… sit… Good girl!” Sansa beamed as she fed the sitting white and pale gray wolf a bite of raw beef from her hand, warning her as she grabbed it a bit too quickly.

“Only you could turn not one but two fearsome, prehistoric beasts into perfectly well behaved little ladies,” Theon laughed from her bed as Sansa readjusted the yellow ribbons around Jonquil's neck.

“Well she’s not totally well behaved yet, we still have a problem with table manners but we’re getting there.”

Theon just grinned as he got off the bed and kneeled besides Sansa. He reached out and scratched the wolf behind her ear, gnawing at his lip. “... You think she might enjoy the ocean?”

“What do you mean, there’s no oceans around Winterfell. Jonquil, lay down. Good girl!”

“I know.” He cleared his throat and turned to look at her. “But there is on the Iron Islands.”

Sansa turned to Theon who just looked at her as if he couldn’t believe the words had left his own mouth. She gasped at him and whatever courage spurred him on started to falter.

“If… If you don’t-... if you don’t think she would,” he stammered out, “she doesn’t have to. She can- Jonquil can stay here, I just, it- it was just a thought.”

Sansa ran her fingers through the soft pale white fur, letting her mind race and wonder. She had a strong feeling he wasn’t just talking about a visit but something more long term, something more permanent. She would need to leave home. She would need to leave Winterfell. She would need to leave her family and, a voice whispered in the back of her mind, any chance of power. Yara was the ruler of the Iron Islands, Theon told her, she earned the right to them and would be a far better leader than her brother ever could. He would sit on her council, he could raise his own House to be her bannerman but his sister would hold the true claim to the Iron Islands. Sansa would simply be the wife to a powerless man.

But… But… she was happy. She was happier then she had been since before she left Winterfell so many years ago, when she wanted nothing more than to be Joffrey's queen. She didn’t want to scheme and plot and play at the game when she was around him, she didn’t care about power, or winning. All she cared about was him, all she wanted was for him to treat her like a Lady and she would treat him as her Lord, all she wanted was her song starring the two of them and Theon wanted to give that to her. Besides Bran was given control of Winterfell and the North, and Arya’s sons would rule after him, Sansa gained nothing by staying here in the North except sitting at the high table and offering counsel when asked. 

And she would not, could not, marry a man she didn’t love. Not after she experienced being loved by Theon, not when anything else would be lesser and done for politics rather than her choosing.

She smiled and reached out, taking his hand in hers. “I think,” she said softly. “That Jonquil would love to see the oceans…”

Sansa could have laughed at the look in his eye, disbelieving and wowed. “I- truly? You- you would want to-? With me?” She nodded quickly and then laughed and squealed as he surged forward and kissed her. Sansa grinned against his lips and draped her arms around his shoulders. 

“We’ll have to wait until the war is over,” she told him when he was finished, running her hands through his dark curls. “But after that, I would be honored to make my home with you at Pyke.” She grinned and scratched Jonquil behind the ear. “And so would she.”

“You two seem to be having fun.” 

Sansa and Theon looked towards the door where Arya stood, hands clasped behind her back. Her wolf Visenya sat beside her gnawing on a bone, dark gray fur caked in mud and twigs. She smiled at her younger sister. “Hello, Arya.”

“I need to speak to you. In private,” she said glancing at Theon. 

“Of course.” He pressed a chaste kiss to Sansa’s cheek before he stood and left, shutting the door behind him. 

“Is there something you needed?” Sansa asked when Arya said nothing. She walked over to Sansa, drawing the thin blade and balancing it in her hands and looking down at her sword. “What’s happening? Is everything alright?”

“I received a raven from Jon today.” She stopped to look up at Sansa. “Tarth was attacked by Eurons forces. The Evenstar is dead, Evenfall was burned to the ground. Missandei was kidnapped.”

Sansas eyes went wide and her heart leapt into her throat. “Is Jon alright? What about the baby?”

“They’re both fine.”

“Good… good, Gods I need to tell Brienne.” She stood quickly and made to leave when Arya stood in front of her, looking up at her. “Arya, get out of my way.” She tries to step around her but Arya blocked her again. “Arya!”

Her sister smiled. “Going to order her not to hate you? Try to explain that you didn’t mean for her family to be killed?”

“Wha-? No, her father just died and her home was burned to the ground, someone has to let her know.”

“By all means, the person responsible should be the one to man up and say something.”

She furrowed her brow. “Excuse me?”

“No one knew they were going to Tarth,” said Arya with a strange cool calmness. “They told everyone they would be going to Dragonstone.”

Sansa took a step back. “You… you aren’t saying-... Arya, I didn’t say anything.”

“Someone did. And you were the only one in that room who knew they would be going to Tarth and had a reason to talk to Cersei.”

“I hate Cersei more than anyone!” Jonquil whimpered, and debated standing in front of and hiding behind Sansa’s legs. She didn’t want to fight one of her pack mates, especially one stronger than her (not to mention her ribbons might get ruined), but this person was clearly upset and could possibly be dangerous to her master. 

“And you hate Daenerys as well,” Arya said. “You hate that she took away your power, our independence…”

“I- I did yes, but, I-... she let me-... She could have forced me to marry Bronn and she didn’t, she let me be with Theon.”

“And you paid her back by telling our strategy to the woman who let her son abuse you because you couldn’t stand losing your power.”

“I didn’t tell Cersei!” she cried. “I wouldn’t do that to Jon, I wouldn’t do that to Brienne!”

“Oh I’m sure you wouldn’t. But if they happened to get hurt if Daenerys loses-.”

“I’m telling you I didn’t say anything about Tarth!”

Arya’s gray eyes looked over her face for a long moment and then, finally, the girl’s expression shifted into shock and she stepped back. “You’re telling the truth…”

“I told you I was! How could you think I would tell Cersei, Arya?”

She swallowed hard and looked down at the raven scroll in hand before looking back at his sister, expression apologetic and soft. “I’m sorry. But you can’t be upset that you’re the first name I thought of.” She reached up and laid a hand on her sister's shoulder. “I’ll absolutely stand behind you if anyone else accuses you.” Sansa just gave her a weary eye but said nothing. “Are you going to go talk to Brienne?”

“I have to. This isn’t something you should find out from a raven.” 

Arya nodded, reaching down and scratching Jonquil behind the ear. “The ribbons are really pretty,” she said, an attempt at a peace offering. 

“Thank you,” she sniffed. Sansa nodded at the wolf still gnawing at her bone. “The… mud on her face is an interesting choice of decoration.”

“Shut up,” Arya said quickly and Sansa laughed. “She just needs to have a bath.” Visenya dropped her bone and took off running. “I forgot how much she hates that word!” Arya groaned before she hurried after the wolf. 

When she was gone Sansa called for Jonquil to follow her to Brienne’s chambers. When she knocked Jaime answered the door. “You speak with Brienne already?”

“Isn’t she with you?”

“One of your guards said you wanted to see her.” 

Sansa shook her head. “No, I was just about to come get her, I need to speak to her.” 

“Yes, that’s why you send your man to come fetch her.”

“I didn’t tell  _ anyone  _ to fetch her.” 

Jaime furrowed his brow before he closed the door. Sansa stood there frozen for a moment before he emerged, boots and cloak on and flaming sword in hand, a dark and dangerous look in his eye.

“What’s happened?” Sansa demanded as she followed behind. Her heart began to pound dangerously in his chest as they hurried down the steps. “Ser Jaime?”

“Some guard came,” he said without breaking his stride. Sansa followed him outside. “Said you needed to speak to her in the Wolfswood.”

“But I never-!”

A scream, loud and familiar, lifted from the snow covered forest. 

Jaimes eyes went wide, and then he was sprinting as fast as he could with Sansa struggling to keep up. As they got nearer they could hear men yelling, steel clashing and Brienne’s well-know grunts and screams and when they finally burst through the trees they both froze. 

Two men laid dead in the snows, another lay gasping and bleeding, and three others were pressing her. Her hair was disheveled, her leather jerkin torn down the middle, and her sword swinging as fast as she could. Jaime moved quickly. His sword joined hers in the battle, cutting through flesh and bone as easily as a baker might carve through a cake. 

Sansa never much understood swordsmanship. She knew Jaime was considered a prodigy when he had two hands and she knew Brienne could vanquish foes in less than half a heartbeat, but any fighting she ever watched was with blunt sparring swords from a padded seat on the tourney grounds. She never really understood how violent and in a way beautiful it was to see men fight, truly fight, much less ones as accomplished as those two.

Every swing they made was graceful, and elegant, Jaime’s less so but even still it was almost breathtaking to behold up close, and more than that the two of them moved as one. Their bodies moved as one, every movement mirrored the other, one knew what the other would do a second before they did it and reacted accordingly. It was a powerful dance and a brutal fight and passionate lovemaking all at once and no foe could hope to stand against them. Steel rang and screamed and sparks flew as metal struck metal.

Brienne was a loud fighter, obnoxiously loud, grunting and shouting with every swing while Jaime stayed silent but the look on his face as he fought was dangerous and frightening. The two of them made quick work of one, and then turned their attention to the other two. 

One man swung his sword lightning quick, nearly missing Brienne’s arm. He twisted it around in an arc and would have taken off her arm at the elbow but then there was Jaime stopping it in its tracks, and giving Brienne time to stick her valyrian steel though his gut and out the other side. Then they turned towards the last who was baring his teeth like a rabid dog as he held his sword aloft.

“I’m gonna fuck you with that sword before I’m done, you ugly bitch,” he snarled at Brienne.

If ever there was a wrong thing to say in front of Jaime Lannister, it was that. 

He leapt at the man screaming, fighting as furious as he ever fought before. His sword was a shimmer of cool blue flames, moving so fast her eyes could barely follow as he fought the man. He

swinging his sword in such a violent manner Sansa thought him more of a danger to himself then his opponent. But eventually Jaime’s caught him in the middle, the sword ripping through his flesh like a hot knife through butter and he fell to the ground, gasping for air as the blood leaked like a sieve. The green eyed knight quickly pushed the sword down into his heart with a soft grunt, and the man moved no more.

Jaime pushed the mane of graying golden hair from his face turned to a gasping Brienne as she leaned up against a tree, dropping her sword in the snows beside her. Tears were welling in her eyes, and both Jaime and Sansa noticed with a strike of terror and fear in their heart that Brienne was quickly trying to re-tie the laces on her breeches which had been yanked undone.

If Jaime looked scary when he was fighting, the realization of what these men planned to do made him look downright terrifying. “Did they rape you?” he asked in a low mutter. 

Her chin trembled, and when she spoke again it was in a trembling shaky voice. “They came very close.”

His rage was palpable and he barely swallowed any of it when he approached Brienne. His breath was forced and slow and meticulously steady, like he was biting back a world of rage he didn’t want to unleash on the wrong person. As soon as he was close enough Jaime wrapped her in his arms and she clung to him, resting her head on his shoulder as she quickly wiped away her tears. Sansa looked away, feeling as though she was intruding on an intimate moment. 

A low dying groan from one of the attackers grabbed all their attention. He stormed up to the man on the ground and raised his steel.

“Wait!” the dying man protested in a thick northern accent. “Wait, I only- I was only gonna keep a lookout, M’lord!”

“I helped train you,” Brienne said, voice heavy with sorrow and rage. Small as they were she still had to clutch at her jerkin to keep her mauled and bruised breasts from spilling out. “I showed you how to correct your foot form, I worked with you for  **_hours_ ** . Why did you do this to me?”

There was a long stretch of silence. Jaime dug the point of his sword into his eye and the man whimpered. “My Lady asked you a question,” he growled, pressing against it tighter. A sliver of blood ran from his flesh.

“I needed the money!” he wept. “I’m sorry, M’lady, I needed the money! I was starving, I never would’ve-... M’lady, I BEGGED them to be gentle with you! We all agreed we would be, it would have been over and done in ten minutes if you had just-! I just needed the money!” he cried again, tears streaming down his blood stained face. “I needed the money, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please don’t kill me!”

“Money?” Jaime furrowed his brow. “What money?”

“The money your  _ sister _ is offering,” he spat, as if this were all somehow the kingslayer fault. 

Jaime whipped around, wide green eyes meeting shocked blue. Be turned back around to the man. “My sister paid you and your friends to rape her? Speak!” he bellowed when he clutched at the wounds in his stomach and groaned. 

“Not- not us specifically,” he explained. “She- she sent out ravens, saying the- the Lady Brienne was wanted for treason and high theft of the crown. She offered a lordship over Tarth and the Stormlands to whoever brought Lady Brienne to her alive, but the queen said she would-, gods it hurts!” he groaned, needing to take a shaking breath before he finished. “The queen said she would pay double if she was fucked-.”

“Raped!” the Lion snarled. “You were not about to  _ fuck  _ Lady Brienne, you were about to  _ rape _ her! I am the only one she’s given the honor of consent, you and your fucking busies wanted to take her by force! That’s not ‘fucking’ that’s ‘raping’!”

He swallowed hard and nodded. His skin was getting paler by the second. “Sor- I’m sorry, M’lord, but the queen, she promised double the reward if someone raped her before they brought her to her and triple if there was a gang of us that raped her. We would have split the- the reward…”

Jaime’s hand gripped his flaming sword so tight his knuckles turned as white as the snows. “You were going to gang rape her.” His voice was soft but terrified Sansa more than anyone else the Kingslayer had done. “On the word of my sister, for some gold…”

“I wasn’t! I told you I was just the lookout, I swear! I wasn’t ever gonna touch her!l

Jaime’s smile was dangerous, and deadly as he lifted his sword. “And now you won’t have a chance to touch anything else again.”

The scream as he stabbed the man through the hand, pinning him to the ground filled the wolfswood. A moment later he yanked his steel out and with an swift arching swing took his head, sending them all into silence once more.

Jaime sheathed his sword and turned to the redhead. “Get her back to the keep,” he ordered before turning away. “I need to go.”

“No… Jaime, no!” Brienne yelled, running after him. Sansa stood by, unsure what to do or say as she grabbed him by the arm and twisted him around to face her. “Jaime, you can’t leave! I told you-!”

“Do not tell me you think I’m going back to be with her,” he growled low in his throat.

“No but what’ll happen won’t change! They’re going to destroy that city, I don’t want you in the crossfires!”

“Cersei needs to be stopped. I can’t… she would have you be raped, and beaten and your spirit broken before you even got to King's Landing, and if it worked, if they brought you to her alive…” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to remember it wasn’t her he was angry at. “You would have begged for death, long before it was to even find you much less grant you the mercy of its gift.”

“But I’m okay. They didn't…” She closed her eyes and bowed her head. “They came close,” she whispered, her lip trembling. “Very close, but I beat them back. I survived. Don't kill yourself for what nignt have been.” Tears filled her big blue eyes, and Sansa wondered just how close they came… “I need you with me right now,” she whispered. “Please… Jaime, please don’t leave me now.”

“And what’ll happen next time? There’s millions of poor men who are desperate or sick enough to listen to her ravens, you can’t beat them all.”

“I’ll sail to Tarth. My father, his guards, they’ll help protect me until this is over.” Sansa’s face fell as Brienne grabbed his hands. “Come with me. We’ll be safe in Evenfall, we’ll wait out the war there.”

This time it was Sansa whose eyes filled with tears. She cleared her throat and called out to her sworn shield, to her greatest and first ever true friend. “You can’t go to Evenfall,” Sansa muttered.

“My Lady, I know you want me to stay in the North but I-.”

“No I-... I mean… Cersei ordered an assault on the island. Euron’s forces attacked and they burned down Evenfall. and your-... your Father…” Sansa took a step towards the tall woman. “Brienne, I am so sorry.”

Brienne took a hasty step back, shaking her head as if that could make the news not real. “No,” she whispered, barely a sigh above the breeze. “No… no, no, NO!” A song ripped past her lips, tearing Sansa’s heart in two. Jaime immediately took her in his arms and she clung as she wept on his shoulder like he was the only thing left on this earth. “Not my father!” she sobbed. “Not my father, please! Please, Jaime, please!”

“It’s alright,” he whispered, his own tears welling in his eyes and streaming down his face as he stroked her pale yellow hair. Sansa bowed her head and walked away from the Wolfswood, leaving Brienne to her grief and Jaime to his comforting. “It’s alright, My Lady, it’s alright… I have you. I have you. I’ll always have you…”

When the news came later that night as she, Jonquil and Theon laid in bed together that the two Southern knights were last seen galloping hard south, Sansa thanked the man from the news and went back to bed, dreaming of Jonquil tearing Cersei’s throat out, doing it so elegantly that not a spot of blood soiled her beautiful yellow ribbons… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely for taking so long with this chapter. But the problem is, is I was unsure how much to show or reveal how much and what exactly happened to Brienne. I wrote something from her POV, something from the attackers, flashbacks as she’s fighting... But overall I decided that yall don’t need to read that. I’m not D&D, you don’t need to see a violent assault just to tell someone, ‘there was an assault.’ Bad things happened to her that didn’t go all the way and she won out in the end, and thats all you need to know. What happened exactly is between me and Brienne and eventually Jaime.


End file.
